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The rain fell in merciless sheets across the Dreaming, turning gilded spires to dull lead and drowning the usual hush in a low, constant roar. It was not the gentle patter of mortal melancholy; this was a deluge born of something older, something wounded. The sky wept as though the realm itself had forgotten how to stop grieving.
In the great library, Lucienne stood at the tall window that overlooked the vast expanse of the Dreaming, arms folded tightly across her crisp white blouse, glasses fogged at the edges from the damp that seeped even through dream-stone. She had not moved in hours. Behind her, the long reading tables were empty save for the three figures who remained: herself, the ever-grumbling Marvin (who had taken to calling himself Merv Pumpkinhead again when he was irritated), and Matthew the raven, perched on the back of Dream’s favorite chair like a small feathered judge.
“He’s not up there,” she said without turning, sensing the restless pacing behind her.
Merv snorted, polishing the same brass doorknob for the third time. “Then why lock the damn place like it’s Fort Knox?”
“Because it smells like him,” she answered softly. “And because the scent is… potent. If the wrong sort of creature were to wander in—” Her gaze flicked toward the open doors of the library, where shadows moved with more purpose than usual. “—we would have more than rain to contend with.”
Matthew ruffled his feathers, beak clicking once in irritation. “You mean the Corinthian.”
“I mean anyone,” Lucienne corrected, though her tone betrayed the lie. “But yes. Especially him.”
The nightmare had not yet arrived, but Lucienne could already feel the ripple of his approach: a low, predatory hum beneath the rain, the way certain dreams grew teeth when he passed near. He would come. He always did when the realm tasted of distress.
And when he did, he would not be content with locked doors.
The great double doors at the far end of the library burst inward with theatrical force. Water sluiced off beige blazer, dripping in dark rivulets across marble. The Corinthian stood framed in the entrance, pale hair plastered to his skull, eyes—those impossible, hungry mouths—already smiling.
“Where is he?”
Lucienne did not flinch. She turned slowly, posture perfect, voice cool as polished onyx.
“Busy.”
He stepped inside, Oxford shoes leaving wet prints on the otherwise pristine wooden floors. “He’s always busy. I want to know where.”
Merv muttered something about nosy nightmares and went back to his doorknob. Matthew’s wings flicked once, twice—sharp little warnings.
The Corinthian’s head tilted, predatory. Rain gleamed on the sharp line of his jaw. “So he left you three to run the joint?”
“Yes,” Lucienne said, unflinching.
A slow, dangerous grin split his face. “Alright. I’m gonna go find him.”
He turned on his heel. They knew what that meant. He'll be tearing up the place until he finds what he's looking for, but this faithful librarian stood her ground.
“He deserves to be alone, Corinthian. ”
“He deserves—” The nightmare toned down his voice, unclenching his jaw.“—to not suffer alone and ask for help once in a damn while.”
Before Lucienne could look down at his busy hand, she saw the long tale sign of a quick Dream spell traced into the timeless wood of the long library desk. Black smoke rose and revealed the conversation the three of them were having before his arrival.
The Corinthan had the biggest chester grin on his face.
“The Dreaming’s End.”
Something feral and older than courtesy flashed across his features—hunger, recognition, a flicker of something almost like awe. Then it was gone, swallowed behind that practiced, cocky mask.
“Now,” he drawled, turning back just enough to let them see the gleam in his teethed eyes, “why would our good Lord be there?”
Lucienne met his gaze without blinking. “It’s not for us to know.”
He studied her for a long moment, as though deciding whether to push, to tear the truth from her throat with teeth or charm. Then he laughed—low, dark, intimate—and stepped back into the rain.
The doors swung shut behind him.
Matthew let out a harsh croak. “He’ll die if he tries to find Morpheus. Nobody goes to the End.”
Lucienne adjusted her glasses with fingers that did not tremble. “Nobody has tried. But leave it to the Corinthian to prove otherwise.”
Outside, the rain fell harder, as though the Dreaming itself were trying to wash the scent of him away before he reached the one who had made him.
Somewhere far deeper, in the place where even the rain could not follow, Morpheus curled tighter against himself, pale thighs slick and trembling, lips parted on a soundless plea no one was allowed to hear.
Not yet.
Not until the nightmare came to claim what had always been his to ruin.
-_✨🔥🕶️🗡️🕶️🔥✨_-
The Corinthian descended without haste, oxford shoes carving deliberate paths through the fractured obsidian that marked the Dreaming’s descent into its own forgotten spine. The realm itself conspired against him—not with malice, but with the raw, leaking agony of its lord. Morpheus’s heat had bled outward in visual screams: manifestations of hunger so profound they took shape as obstacles, each one a dark mirror of the omega’s solitary torment, designed to deter any intruder who dared approach the edge. Yet every barrier only fed the nightmare’s feral hunger, sharpening the possessive growl that coiled low in his throat. These were not defenses. They were invitations—proof that his lord suffered alone, dripping, aching, and that only the Corinthian’s knot would end it.
The first veil tore at him like a lover’s desperate grasp: the Veil of Whispered Longings. Mist thickened into spectral forms—pale, elegant bodies identical to Morpheus’s own, dozens of them writhing in mid-air, thighs splayed wide, fingers plunging deep into glistening, imaginary slick. Their lips—cherry-stained, lush even in ruin—parted on silent, broken moans of his name, Corinthian, while their hips bucked against nothing, begging for a cock that would never arrive. Smoky hands reached out, trailing phantom slick across his suit jacket, trying to drag him into their endless, empty ecstasy. The nightmare’s ocular mouths snapped open wide, tongues flicking to taste the illusion; he snarled, low and unleashed, ripping through them with clawed fingers. The figures dissolved into whimpering vapor, but the scent lingered—ripe figs and night-blooming jasmine crushed underfoot—making his cock strain harder, thicker, a feral promise that only the real thing would suffice.
Deeper still, the ground split into the Pit of Aching Emptiness: a yawning chasm where pain itself had taken root. Thorny vines erupted from the black earth, each one slick-drenched and pulsing like a vein, lashing out with wet, obscene cracks. They carried visions in their barbs—flashes of Morpheus curled alone, back arched in silent agony, hole clenching around empty air, thighs trembling as fresh rivulets of nectar spilled uselessly onto the stone. Every strike against the Corinthian’s skin burned with that denied release, the sting blooming into heat that made his own knot throb in sympathy and rage. He laughed—dark, velvet-rough—leaping the abyss in one fluid bound, crushing the vines beneath his shoes until they burst in sprays of glistening fluid. The taste of Morpheus’s pain coated his tongue; it only made him hungrier, more possessive, the alpha in him roaring that no realm would keep what was already his to ruin.
The Labyrinth of Unfulfilled Fantasies twisted next, walls of living flesh pulsing like overworked muscle, projecting orgiastic scenes that leaked straight from Morpheus’s fractured mind. Faceless alphas rutted into ethereal versions of his lord—knotting him raw against every surface, mouths sucking at swollen cocks, fingers and tongues delving into slick-soaked holes while Morpheus’s illusory form keened in painful, fractured ecstasy. The air reeked of sex and desperation; wet slaps and shattered gasps echoed off the walls, trying to lure the Corinthian into distraction, into becoming just another phantom relief. His growl turned feral, teeth bared; he shattered the projections with snaps of dream-wrought power, each destruction a vow carved into the realm itself: Only I will stretch him. Only I will fill him until he leaks for days.
At last, the final barrier parted like a curtain of sin: layers upon layers of dense, swirling smoke shaped into human bodies—hundreds of them now, a living, indecent tapestry of Morpheus’s most forbidden fantasies spilling outward. Smoky alphas with heavy, thrusting cocks buried deep in smoky omegas; mouths stretched wide around leaking shafts, tongues lapping at slick-drenched holes; knots swelling grotesquely beautiful in every conceivable position—bodies entangled, grinding, breeding in a ceaseless, writhing mass that draped and covered the central figure like a second skin. They performed every carnal act upon and around Morpheus himself: one smoky form knotting his throat while another rutted between pale thighs, fingers plunging, hips snapping, seed and slick mingling in obscene rivulets that dripped down the real lord’s trembling form. The smoke pulsed with his heat, leaking fantasies made manifest, shielding him in a cocoon of indecent display while his true body remained curled at the heart—exposed, glistening, utterly alone in its ruin.
The Corinthian tore through them with unleashed precision, hands ripping smoky limbs apart, bodies dissolving into billowing vapor only to reform and cling again—each shredding a dark act of possession. His laugh was low, victorious, teeth gleaming as the final layers peeled away in a cloud of writhing shadow.
The Corinthian did not rush.
He savored the moment the last writhing shadow peeled away from the cloud, leaving only Morpheus—curled, exposed, glistening—like a secret the Dreaming had finally surrendered. The air between them thickened, heavy with that impossible scent: ripe figs bruised open, night-blooming jasmine crushed under heel, and something sharper, something divine and forbidden that made the mouths in his eyes blink open wider, tasting.
He circled slowly.
Once.
Twice.
A predator admiring the kill it has already decided belongs to him.
Morpheus did not uncurl. His knees remained drawn high, one pale arm wrapped around them as though he could shield the slick pooling beneath him, the way it darkened the cracked earth to obsidian. But the attempt was futile. Every shallow breath pushed more of that nectar into the air, every tremor sent fresh rivulets sliding down the insides of his thighs. The Corinthian could see the shine of it catching faint starlight that had no business existing this deep in the realm.
He stopped behind Morpheus, close enough that the heat rolling off that lithe body licked against the front of his trousers. His cock strained painfully now, thick and insistent, but he made no move to touch himself. Not yet. Not until the surrender was absolute.
“You ran,” he murmured, voice velvet dragged over broken glass. “All the way here. To the very edge of everything you rule. Hid yourself like some mortal omega afraid of being scented by the pack.”
Morpheus’s shoulders tensed. A low sound escaped him—not quite a whimper, not quite a denial. Something aloof even in its fracture.
The Corinthian crouched, knees bracketing Morpheus’s curled form without touching. He leaned in until his lips hovered a breath from the damp nape of that elegant neck. “Did you think distance would dull it? That layers of dream and forgetting would keep me from finding the exact place where my lord drips for relief?”
Corinthian chuckled, “Your parents have a sick sense of humor making you into an omega.”
He inhaled—slow, deliberate, obscene. The sound of it filled the silence like a growl held on a leash.
“I can taste you already,” he whispered against sweat-slick skin. “Right here—” His tongue flicked out, not quite touching, just close enough that Morpheus felt the heat of it ghost over the pulse point beneath his ear. “—and here—” Lower now, tracing the air above the elegant line of spine. “—and fuck, especially here.”
His hand hovered above the small of Morpheus’s back, fingers flexing as though fighting the urge to press down, to pin, to claim. Instead he let the heat of his palm radiate without contact, letting Morpheus feel the promise of it.
“You made me,” the Corinthian continued, voice dropping to something darker, more possessive. “On the first day of a heat like this one. You reached into the marrow of every alpha who ever fucked you raw and pulled out the cruelest, hungriest parts. Shaped them. Gave them mouths that never close. And then you set me loose in the world to terrify dreamers while you—” He laughed once, soft and vicious. “—while you pretended none of it was for you.”
Morpheus shuddered. His thighs clenched tighter, but the motion only forced more slick to spill. The Corinthian watched it trail down, slow and glistening, until it reached the cleft where his lord’s body ached most.
“Look at you,” he breathed, reverent and feral all at once. “Soaking the heart of your own realm because you won’t ask. Won’t beg. Won’t even say my name.”
He shifted, finally letting one fingertip brush—barely—the slick on Morpheus’s inner thigh. Just enough to coat the pad of his finger. He brought it to his lips, sucked it clean with a low, broken moan that vibrated through both of them.
“Divine,” he rasped. “Better than ambrosia. Better than blood. I could live on this alone and still starve for more.”
Morpheus’s breathing hitched—sharp and controlled—and then fractured into something rawer. His head turned fractionally, enough for the Corinthian to catch the gleam of fever-bright eyes, the cherry stain of lips parted on a silent submission.
The nightmare smiled, slow and dangerous. “I’m not going anywhere, my lord.” He leaned closer still, until his mouth hovered over the shell of Morpheus’s ear. “Not until I’ve licked every drop from these thighs. Not until I’ve stretched that perfect, untouched hole around my knot. Not until you’ve screamed my name so loud the Dreaming will know who you belong to when the rain finally stops.”
His free hand settled—finally—on Morpheus’s hip. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting there, heavy with intent, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles over bone.
“But I can wait,” he purred. “I’ve waited centuries already. A few more minutes won’t kill me.”
A beat.
Then, softer, darker, the promise that broke something inside them both:
“Though it might kill you if I do.”
Morpheus’s body arched—just a fraction, just enough to press back against that hovering heat.
And the Corinthian’s growl was immediate, primal, triumphant.
There it was.
The first crack in unyielding restraint.
He would savor that, too.
Before he took everything else.
One elegant hand lifted from where it had been curled tight against his own ribs. Long fingers found the Corinthian’s wrist—cool, trembling, but deliberate—and guided it downward. Not to pin. Not to demand. Simply to rest, palm flat against the small of Morpheus’s back, so close to his quivering hole.
The nightmare exhaled once, ragged.
Morpheus did not speak. He did not need to. The language of his body was older than words: the slow unfurling of one pale thigh, the subtle tilt of hips that parted slick flesh just enough to let more nectar drip in slow, obscene invitation. The Corinthian felt it coat his fingers where they rested—hot, thick, divine—and his control frayed like silk caught on thorns.
He leaned in until his mouth brushed the shell of Morpheus’s ear, voice velvet dragged over gravel.
“Say my name,” he murmured. “Just once. Let me hear my name from that perfect mouth before I mark you so deeply the Dreaming itself will remember.”
Morpheus’s lashes fluttered. His breath hitched, already fracturing.
“…Corinthian.”
The sound of it—soft, regal, wrecked—was more devastating than any scream.
The nightmare moved.
He shifted them with predatory grace: one arm sliding beneath Morpheus’s waist to lift, turn and cradle that lithe body against his chest, thighs splayed wide across powerful hips. The King of Dreams was pinned. Morpheus’s head fell back against a broad shoulder; dark hair spilled like ink over sand. The Corinthian’s free hand roamed, slowly mapping every trembling inch: the elegant dip of collarbone, the taut plane of abdomen slick with his own arousal.
Then his mouth descended.
Not to kiss. To claim.
The Dream God’s skin was momentarily soft, only for his heat and it would bleed so pretty for him.
He found the elegant column of Morpheus’s throat first—right where the pulse fluttered like a trapped star—and sank his teeth in.
Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.
Fangs pierced skin with a wet, deliberate crunch; hot, starlit blood bloomed across the Corinthian’s tongue—sweet, metallic, divine. He drank it like sacrament, growling low against the wound as he worried the flesh between his teeth, not tearing, but holding, sucking, branding. Crimson welled and trickled down pale skin, staining the hollow of his collarbone, dripping onto black earth like spilled ink.
Morpheus’s back bowed violently. A shattered keen tore from his throat—regal even in ruin, posh syllables fracturing into something raw and animal. His hole clenched on nothing, fresh slick spilling in helpless response; thighs trembled against the unforgiving ground.
The Corinthian pulled back just enough to admire the mark—two perfect crescent punctures weeping red against porcelain—then dragged his open mouth lower. He sank a second bite into the soft swell above Morpheus’s heart, right over the frantic hammer of that ancient pulse. Blood welled again; he lapped it greedily, tongue stroking the fresh wound in slow, possessive circles while his free hand cupped the front of Morpheus’s neck, holding him steady for the claiming.
“Mine,” he snarled against the bite, voice wrecked and velvet-rough. “Not bonded. Just marked.”
Morpheus’s fingers tangled in pale hair, not to push away, but to pull closer. His voice, when it came, was breathless and so utterly destroyed:
“…Again.”
The Corinthian laughed—dark, triumphant, unleashed—and obliged, teeth finding the tender join of shoulder and throat for a third mark. Each bite throbbed in time with Morpheus’s racing heart, each one a vow carved into flesh that would heal once this heat is over but never fully vanish from memory.
When he finally lifted his head, lips and chin smeared crimson, ocular mouths wide and blinking in feral adoration, Morpheus was trembling—spent from sensation alone, hole fluttering emptily, thighs slick to the point of dripping, every posh line of him unraveling under the weight of being so thoroughly claimed.
His sweet omega scent was driving him mad as he flipped Morpheus on his back.
The Corinthian’s mouth claimed Morpheus’s—hard, devouring, as though he could drink the surrender straight from cherry-stained lips. Tongues clashed in slick, desperate rhythm; teeth grazed; a low, broken moan vibrated between them. Morpheus’s hands that had once shaped universes, clutched at the nightmare’s back, nails digging crescents through white cotton, anchoring himself against the storm he had created.
He shifted his hips, grinding slow and deliberate, letting the thick length of his still covered cock slide through the copious slick coating Morpheus’s entrance. The nightmare needed more. The Corinthian reared back just enough to free himself—trousers shoved down, cock springing heavy and flushed, already leaking at the tip. He took a few passes, teased the swollen rim, catching just enough to press inward an inch—then retreating—leaving Morpheus arching, hips lifting in silent, arrogant demand.
“Please,” Morpheus whispered again—barely audible, posed even in ruin. The word cracked something primal inside the nightmare.
No more teasing.
He aligned with one smooth, possessive stroke of his hand, the head nudging against that fluttering, greedy hole.
“Look at me,” he commanded, voice velvet-dark.
Morpheus’s eyes—fever-bright, starless—lifted to meet the nightmare’s gaze. The mouths there blinked open wide, tongues flicking out to taste the air between them, hungry for every tremor, every gasp.
Then the Corinthian pushed in.
Slow. Inexorable. Unyielding.
Morpheus’s back bowed off the black earth, a high, shattered sound tearing from his throat—cold restraint fracturing into raw, animal need. The stretch burned exquisite; the nightmare filled him inch by thick inch until hips met ass with a wet, obscene slap. Slick eased the way, but the fullness was overwhelming—godly body made to take mortal hungers, now stretched around something far more dangerous.
The Corinthian stilled for one trembling heartbeat, buried to the hilt, letting Morpheus feel every pulsing vein, every throb of alpha need.
“You feel that?” he rasped, lips brushing Morpheus’s ear. “That’s what you made. That’s what you denied yourself for centuries.”
Morpheus’s thighs trembled around his waist; his hole clenched, fluttered, tried to pull him deeper. A soft, wrecked whimper escaped, elegant even in desperation.
The nightmare began to move.
Long, punishing strokes—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in, hips snapping with feral precision. Each thrust drove slick from Morpheus’s body in wet, filthy sounds; each retreat left him clenching around nothing, aching for return. The Corinthian’s hands pinned Morpheus’s wrists above his head—one massive palm encircling both fragile bones—while the other gripped a pale hip hard enough to bruise violet.
“Say it,” the Corinthian growled, pace quickening, brutal. “Say who you belong to.”
Morpheus’s head thrashed—dark hair splayed across obsidian ground, lips swollen and glistening. “Yours,” he gasped, voice cracking on the word. “Corinthian—yours—”
The name on those lips was the final trigger.
The base of the nightmare’s cock began to swell—thickening, stretching already-strained walls further. Morpheus keened—high, broken, beautiful—as the knot formed, pushing insistently against his rim with every thrust.
“Take it,” the Corinthian snarled, hips grinding in short, ruthless circles. “Take every fucking inch of what you created.”
One final, punishing thrust—and the knot locked inside.
Morpheus’s body seized—back arching off the ground in a perfect, trembling bow, mouth falling open on a silent scream. The stretch was impossible, exquisite, overwhelming; the knot pulsed hot and heavy, sealing them together, flooding Morpheus’s insides with the first thick spurt of release.
The nightmare groaned—deep, animal, reverent—head dropping to Morpheus’s throat as he came in long, pulsing waves. Each spurt painted Morpheus’s walls, filled him until slick and seed leaked around the knot in obscene rivulets. The heat of it soothed the burning ache of heat, sent relief crashing through Morpheus’s body in shuddering waves.
Morpheus came untouched—cock spurting weakly across his own stomach, hole clenching rhythmically around the knot, milking every drop. His thighs shook; his fingers flexed helplessly in the Corinthian’s grip; tears—shimmering, starlit—slipped from the corners of his eyes.
The nightmare kissed them away—soft, possessive, almost tender—before licking a slow stripe up Morpheus’s cheek.
“Mine,” he whispered again, hips still rocking in tiny, grinding motions that dragged the knot against every sensitive place inside. “My lord. My omega. My everything.”
Morpheus trembled beneath him—spent, sated, claimed—yet still regal even in ruin. His voice, when it came, was soft, delicate, wrecked:
“…Stay.”
The Corinthian’s growl was immediate, triumphant.
“I was never leaving.”
He settled more fully atop Morpheus, chest to chest, knot locked deep, bodies sealed together in the heart of the Dreaming’s End. The rain above had long since ceased; the realm held its breath.
And for the first time in centuries, Morpheus did not burn alone.
He burned with his nightmare inside him—possessive, feral, unleashed—and the world felt, at last, perfectly balanced.
-_🌕🌗⏳🌟⏳🌓🌕_-
The silence at the Dreaming’s End stretched taut, a bowstring drawn to breaking.
Morpheus stood first—slow, deliberate, every line of his body reasserting the regal distance he had momentarily surrendered. Pale thighs still gleamed with the evidence of their claiming: thick trails of seed cooling against lilac skin, slick drying in glossy streaks that caught the faint, sourceless light like veins of starlit marble. He made no move to wipe it away, no gesture to conceal. He simply allowed it to remain—visible proof, a map of possession he neither acknowledged nor denied.
The Corinthian watched him rise with the stillness of a predator who has already tasted blood and knows the kill cannot escape.
He did not stand immediately. He knelt there instead—knees braced on the black earth, beige trousers still shoved low around powerful thighs, cock softening but heavy between his legs, slick-shined and marked by Morpheus’s own body. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing once, twice, as though fighting the urge to reach out and drag his lord back down.
Morpheus turned fractionally, dark hair falling across one shoulder like spilled ink. He regarded the nightmare with that cool, starless gaze—detached, assessing, utterly composed despite the faint tremor that still lingered in his limbs.
“You stare,” Morpheus observed, voice soft as it follows into familiar tones, carrying no accusation, only mild curiosity.
The Corinthian’s lips curled—slow, dangerous, reverent. “I’m memorizing,” he answered, voice low and velvet-rough. “Every inch of you marked by me. Every drop I left inside still leaking out. The way your thighs shake just enough to betray you even when your voice doesn’t.” He tilted his head, ocular mouths blinking open wider, tongues flicking out to taste the air still thick with their combined scent. “You can walk away now, my lord. You can ascend through every layer, return to your throne, pretend this never happened. But you’ll feel me with every step. You’ll feel the stretch I left behind. The ache. The weight of my knot still echoing in your cunt.”
Morpheus’s expression did not change. Yet something flickered—deep, buried, almost imperceptible—in the depths of those endless eyes. He took one measured step forward, then another, bare feet silent on the cracked ground. Seed slid further down his inner thigh with the motion, a slow, obscene trickle that caught the light and gleamed. The alpha raised his pant, tucking and zipping himself back up.
The Corinthian rose in the same heartbeat—fluid, predatory, closing the distance until their bodies nearly brushed. He did not touch. Not yet. He simply loomed—chest rising and falling with barely-leashed hunger, heat radiating from him like a furnace—close enough that Morpheus could feel the ghost of his breath against collarbones still flushed violet from bites.
“You think you can walk back into your palace like this?” the nightmare murmured, voice dropping to something intimate and lethal. “Dripping with me? Smelling like me? Every librarian, every raven, every dream that brushes past you—they’ll know. They’ll scent it on your skin, taste it in the air. They’ll know their cold, perfect lord let his own nightmare knot him raw at the edge of everything.” His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—hovering just above Morpheus’s hip without making contact. Fingers curled inward, trembling with restraint. “And they’ll know you let me do it again. And again. Until the next heat comes and you don’t even try to hide.”
Morpheus tilted his head, regarding him with that same serene detachment. “You presume much,” he said quietly. “I permit what serves the realm. What ends the suffering of the Dreaming. Nothing more.”
The Corinthian’s laugh was dark, intimate, edged with teeth. “Then permit this.”
He stepped closer—bodies finally brushing, chest to chest, the sticky evidence of their joining smearing between them. His hand settled at last—possessive, unyielding—on the small of Morpheus’s back, fingers splaying wide to press him forward until their hips aligned. The nightmare’s cock—still half-hard, slick with their combined release—nudged against Morpheus’s abdomen.
Morpheus did not pull away.
He simply lifted one elegant hand and placed it flat against the Corinthian’s sternum—not pushing, not pulling, merely resting there. A barrier. A claim of his own.
“I will return to the palace,” Morpheus said, voice soft, measured, regal. “You will follow. Not because I command it. But because you cannot bear to be anywhere else.”
The Corinthian’s growl vibrated through both of them—low, feral, triumphant.
“Try to leave me behind,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of Morpheus’s ear, “and see how far you get before I hunt you down again. Before I pin you to the nearest wall—throne room, library, the heart of your own fucking library—and remind you exactly who carved himself into your body. Who filled you until you leaked for days. Who made you come untouched while you whispered my name like a prayer.”
Morpheus’s fingers flexed once against the nightmare’s chest, unmoving.
“Then do not make me wait long,” he murmured—cool, almost bored, yet threaded with something darker, hungrier, that he would never name. “The realm requires order. And I… require rest.”
The Corinthian’s hand slid lower—cupping one ass cheek, thumb dragging through the sticky trail still leaking from Morpheus’s hole. He pressed just enough to feel the faint flutter of overused muscle, to feel his own seed shift inside.
“Rest,” he echoed, voice wrecked with possession. “I’ll let you rest. For now. But when the heat returns—when that perfect composure cracks again—you won’t have to call. I’ll already be there. Knot-deep. Filling you. Owning you. Until even your dreams remember my name before yours.”
Morpheus turned away then—slow, graceful, beginning the long ascent without another word.
The Corinthian followed—half a step behind, close enough to feel the heat still radiating from Morpheus’s skin, close enough to scent the claim he had left behind.
No more distance.