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lostinthedreaming · 12 hours ago

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the carriage of want ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆

summary: morpheus follows delirium through her realm’s train, where she tests him by conjuring a seductive copy of you. he resists, but the image burrows under his skin. back in the dreaming, still raw with want, he slips into your sleep and remakes your quiet café into a long, swaying train. what follows is slow-burn seduction turned rough, his restraint fraying into need as he pins you to the glass and makes you confess you still want him.

word count: 7.8k

request: “Hey so i would like to request a NSFW oneshot with morpheus💕 Maybe make it „rough“ (does that make sense) Sorry english isnt my First Language”

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

He moves quickly, following the faint shimmer of his sister’s form as it drifts away from him through the train. The carriage around him breathes and bends in impossible ways: walls that stretch like taffy, windows that bleed into nothing, aisles that lengthen with every step. Delirium is pulling away, her colors dimming, her voice distant.

And then you are there, not truly you, he knows it instantly. This is a projection, an echo, shaped to lure him, to test and distract him. The air shifts around you the way it does in dreams, your figure haloed in the dark red light pouring through windows that weren’t there a moment ago. You are leaning casually against the edge of a seat, as though you have been waiting for him.

The look you give him is dangerous, not the wary defiance of the last time he saw you in the waking world, but something softer, sharper: an invitation wrapped in memory. The curve of your lips is not quite a smile, but it’s enough to make his chest ache. He stops as Delirium’s shape flickers ahead, slipping further away.

You take a step toward him. There’s something in your eyes… heat, longing, the promise of things he has not let himself think about in too long. It’s wrong, he tells himself. You are not here, you are somewhere in the waking world, far from his reach, perhaps far from any thought of him. Still, his hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost overpowering.

“Dream.” Your voice is exactly right: the pitch, the cadence, and it curls around him like smoke. For a moment, the train feels silent except for the sound of it. He exhales, forcing his gaze away from you, away from the way Delirium has so perfectly shaped this trap, but the image doesn’t dissolve. You tilt your head, and that single movement pulls at every carefully locked door inside him.

He could go to you, he could take just a moment… no, his sister is slipping away. With more effort than he has had to summon in centuries, he turns from you and keeps walking. The train hums beneath his feet, the air thick with the scent of his sister’s realm: rain on painted glass, sugar melting on the tongue. Delirium’s form wavers ahead of him, flickering between shapes, always just far enough that he cannot quite catch her.

And then she is there, in front of him, her eyes bright with colors that do not exist, her voice soft and far more forgiving then he deserves. He speaks and she listens, she speaks and he listens. Words pass between them, mending threads frayed not that long ago. When at last the train slows and the world outside shifts, she is gone, off to somewhere he cannot follow for now, and he is left in the quiet.

The quiet does not feel like victory, because even as the carriage empties, as the air cools and steadies, he is still back there in that moment: your gaze catching him mid-step, your voice curling through the noise, the subtle heat in the way you stood as if you had been waiting for him all along.

It was not you, he knows this. His sister had shaped it from memory and longing, a lure wrapped in a face she knew would make him falter and yet… the thought of you, the real you, will not leave him.

The Dreaming greets him like an old palace: vast, shadowed, waiting. The train is gone, the scent of his sister’s realm faded, but the echo of her trick lingers. He moves through the halls of his palace in silence. The library stands still, the great gates are closed and somewhere far away, a fountain sings its endless, silver song. It should be enough to calm him but it is not.

Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Not the waking you: sharper, colder, full of anger and exhaustion, but the version Delirium conjured: the one who leaned toward him with heat in her gaze, who said his name like it still belonged to you.

It should not matter, he knows his sister and her games, he knows you were not truly there. And yet the memory drags at him like an undertow. He tells himself to attend to his realm, he tells himself there is no need to see you, no reason to disturb whatever life you’ve built without him. But the ache has a will of its own, it has been too long since he’s been close enough to breathe the same air as you, too long since he’s felt your presence folding around him like a storm.

He stops at the edge of a balcony, looking out over the infinite horizon of The Dreaming. Every dreamer in the world lies below, their worlds blooming and dissolving in a thousand shifting landscapes, and somewhere among them is yours. His hand curls on the stone railing. If he goes to you now, it will not be for apologies or mending, it will be because he wants you, because he needs you.

He closes his eyes, finds you. Your dream glows against the dark like a pulse and before he can give himself another order to resist, he steps inside.

Your dream is small tonight, quiet. It begins in the corner of a dimly lit cafe, one you have never been to in waking life but that your mind seems to know intimately. The smell of fresh coffee and rain on pavement lingers in the air. There is a soft scrape of chairs mixed with the low murmur of strangers’ voices. You sit alone at a table by the window, one knee bent up toward your chest, a book open in your lap.

It is disarming, this unguarded version of you. You are not braced for anything, not looking for anyone, the curve of your spine as you lean into the seat feels achingly familiar. He stands at the edge of the dream and watches for a long moment, unseen.

The pull toward you is a physical ache in his chest, a slow, steady tightening that has lived in him since the moment Delirium conjured your likeness on the train. He could stay here, simply watching, but already, the desire to step closer is pressing against his resolve.

The space breathes around you: the street beyond the glass shifts, the sound of the café thins and slowly, with the precision of someone testing each note of a melody, he changes your dream. The walls stretch taller, the light fades from amber to the dim grey of a sky just before storm, the floor under your feet hums faintly: the sound of motion.

Your table slides away from the window, the window becomes a panel of glass that shows not a street but endless sky and somewhere beneath, the rumble of wheels on unseen rails begins. You frown, glancing around, the way dreamers do when their world tilts but they cannot say why.

The hum grows steadier, the air thickening into the strange hush of a train in motion. The chairs and the tables, all of them dissolve into narrow aisles and rows of plush seats. The soft scrape of cutlery becomes the muted sway of the carriage. And when you look up he is there.

He has placed himself at the far end of the aisle, one gloved hand resting lightly against the frame of the door, his long coat spilling in dark folds around him. The expression on his face is unreadable from this distance, but his eyes are locked on you as if he has been waiting for this moment for far longer than you could guess.

You do not speak right away and neither does he, the train rocks gently between you. He takes one step forward. The sound of his boots on the carriage floor is barely more than a whisper, but in the dream’s hush, it seems to echo. Each step is deliberate, unhurried, as if he means to give you every chance to flee and knows you won’t.

Your breath catches without warning and you don’t look away, you can’t, because there’s something in his gaze that pins you in place: something dark and endless, and yet burning with a heat you remember far too well. It’s not anger and it’s not tenderness either. It’s desire, honed sharp as a blade.

The dream is not still, with every pace he closes between you, the carriage seems to narrow: the aisle tightening, the walls drawing in just slightly, enough to press you deeper into your seat without ever touching you. Outside the windows, the sky bruises darker, streaked with light that shifts and curls like it’s alive.

He stops only once, halfway down the aisle, as though to take you in from a different angle. His eyes sweep over you, slow and unhurried, like he’s cataloguing every inch of you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His mouth doesn’t move, but you feel the weight of unspoken words in the space between you.

You shift your weight in the seat, unsure if it’s an act of defiance or the smallest instinct to present yourself to him more fully. Either way, his gaze lingers. He takes another step, and another.

By the time he reaches your row, the train is swaying in that deep, steady rhythm that makes the world feel like it’s leaning you into him. He pauses at your side, close enough that the air around him brushes your skin, that scent of cold air and something darker, older, that you’ve never been able to name.

He doesn’t speak at first, and his silence is not uncertainty, it is intention. The kind that tightens your skin from the inside, drawing you taut over the shape of your own hunger until even breathing feels too loud. He braces one gloved hand on the back of the seat across from you, the leather a whisper against fabric, and you can feel the quality of his attention like heat pressed an inch above your bare throat. The carriage hums, the world beyond the windows is a slow bruise of sky and ghost-light, and the train’s endless forward motion makes it feel like there’s nowhere to go but closer.

“Dream,” you say, because the alternative is to say nothing and surrender without terms. His name is a weight on your tongue, the oldest habit you’ve ever tried to break.

His gaze finds your mouth as if your voice lives there and must be seen to be understood. “You are dreaming,” he says at last, his tone low and even, shaped deliberately around words that should not carry heat and somehow do anyway. “And I am here.”

“You shouldn’t be.” You mean to make it sound hard, accusatory but it comes out thin, tugged too close to a tremor. He hears it, of course he does. “No,” he agrees, and the admission does not soften him at all, if anything, it sharpens the moment to a point you can bleed on. “I should not.” A breath you don’t see him take seems to reshape the air. “I tried not to be.”

Your pulse trips and you wonder, briefly and recklessly, how many times he tried not to step into you, how many times he put his hands on the cool stone of that balcony and told himself no. The thought burns through you like the first mouthful of liquor after months of sobriety. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he echoes, and the echo is halfway to a promise. He lifts his hand from the opposite seat, gloved fingers leaving their quiet imprint in your senses, and then, finally, he touches you. Not with the boldness you braced for, not with the roughness your body is already half-wild to meet. He starts with the softest claim he can make and still call it a claim at all: the backs of his knuckles brush along the line of your jaw, a ghosting stroke that barely counts as contact until your lungs forget how to work and your whole body leans infinitesimally into it.

It is cruel the way he does it, cruel because he knows exactly what so little will do to you. His mouth remains unreadable, but something inside the stillness of his face is paying rapt attention to every micro-flinch, every flutter of your throat. When you don’t pull back, when you tilt almost imperceptibly into that touch, the faintest shift pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“You are cruel,” you whisper, because it’s safer than admitting you missed his hands. He accepts this like a coronation, like you have named him something he was always meant to be for you. “Yes.” His knuckles trace up the hinge of your jaw to the soft edge beneath your ear, then forward to the dip just behind it, a slow arc that maps old territory with a patience that feels like being stalked. “And you are dreaming of me.”

“I didn’t choose this,” you manage, even as heat unfurls low and deep, heavy as a storm. You mean the train, the setting, the way he has lifted your small, safe café and replaced it with a corridor of motion and inevitability. You mean him, you mean you.

“No,” he says again, quiet as the dark between lightning and thunder. “You chose to sleep.” The tip of his gloved finger draws down the column of your neck, pausing when it reaches the quick, shallow flutter of your pulse. He lingers there, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep sound where it belongs. “You chose to dream.” A beat. “And I chose to come.”

You should tell him to leave, you should spit the old words like curses, the ones you threw at him when you walked away: that you won’t love a monolith, that devotion without change is a cage. You should, instead you drag air into your lungs and say, “If you’re here to hurt me, do it quickly.”

There is a stilling in him, a perfect stop, like a bird of prey freezing mid-scan because it has found exactly what it was looking for. His hand leaves your throat and for three long heartbeats you think you’ve startled him back into gentleness, that he will step away and you will hate him anew for leaving you full with the ache he made. He doesn’t, he strips his glove off, finger by finger, neat and unhurried, and the sight of that black leather surrendering the long pale bones of his hand turns your insides molten.

When his bare fingers return to your neck, the difference is devastating. He is cool to the touch, and your heat rises to meet him like a flower to the sun. He fits the curve of his palm under your jaw, thumb finding the delicate notch where your pulse knocks hard enough to bruise, and angles your face up. “I am not here to punish you my beloved,” he says, and the words are a blade wrapped in velvet. “I am here because I want you.” His thumb presses, not enough to impede anything but enough to make your mouth open on instinct, for oxygen or to protest, you don’t know… and his gaze drops to the small startle of your lips parting. He inhales like he’s been offered first fruit. “I am here because I need you.”

Something in you breaks neatly along an old fracture. “Say it,” you push, reckless, aching. “Say you came because you couldn’t stay away.” His eyes lift to yours and the force of that look is almost a physical shove: centuries and storms and a man who swore once that he would not change and then did, just enough to make this moment possible. “I came,” he says, each syllable deliberate, “because staying away felt like drowning.”

The train tilts gently, a deeper sway, as if the realm itself throws its weight behind the confession. You swallow hard and then hate that you do, because he feels it under his thumb and the sound it drags from him is low and private, like something he rarely allows himself to make. “Stand,” he says.

It is not loud and it does not have to be, because your body obeys, knees unhooking from the angle of the seat, your hands catching the armrest as the motion of the carriage conspires to tip you forward, toward him. He doesn’t step back, he doesn’t give you an inch as his hand leaves your throat only to settle at your waist, fingers curving, anchoring, staking a claim that makes every deep muscle under your skin tighten and heat.

“Turn,” he adds, guiding you with that palm until your hips brush the side of the seat and your back meets the cool pane of glass. The window breathes a sheen of condensation at the heat of you, at the heat between you, and your breath ghosts pale against it before the dream erases the mark. He follows you in, crowding without contact, so close that your nipples brush the linen of his shirt with each rise of your chest and the ache of wanting a real press, a real weight, becomes excruciating.

“This is a dream,” you say, a last defense that hopes to bargain everything down to illusion. “You can make me want this.” His mouth moves in something that is not kindness. “I don’t have to.”

He lifts both hands to the wall on either side of your head, caging you without touching you, and you feel the old, familiar, infuriating thrill of being cornered by him rise sharp and bright. Your thighs press for friction you will not give yourself, not yet, and his gaze drops, lazy and devastating, to watch. The hum he gives is approval and warning at once.

“Tell me to leave.” He leans in the breadth of one more breath, the edges of him brushing the edges of you: a coat seam at your hip, the cool whisper of his jaw near your temple, the hint of his mouth hovering a hair from your cheek. “If you wish it, I will.”

“You lie,” you whisper, because if you say anything else you may say yes in a way you cannot take back. “You promised change and yet you still play the same games.” He turns his head so the next exhale skims your lips. “I have changed enough to ask.” A heartbeat. “I have not changed enough to stop wanting.”

Your hands, traitors, rise. You put your palms against his chest as if to push him away and discover the opposite, the feel of him under your hands is a memory you never stopped carrying. Hard lines under linen: the solid, immovable heat of him, the way his ribs expand and slow under your touch as if your hands have just become the reason he breathes. You curl your fingers in the fabric and hate how your knees soften with the relief of contact.

“You torment me,” you tell him, but your mouth is closer to his now, your breath striking his lower lip, and the words no longer sounds like accusations, they sound like ceremony, like consent written in the alphabet of old sins. “Take what you came for.”

He does not pounce, he does not seize, he takes, and it is worse. He covers your mouth with his like the first sip after a fast, like the first lungful after surfacing, like he came here to practice restraint and discovered there is a very fine line between restraint and reverence and decided to stand exactly on it. The kiss is slow enough to make you crazy, deep enough to make you gasp, soft enough to make your eyes prickle because you remember when softness was the only thing he denied you.

His hands leave the wall and bracket your jaw, angling your mouth for the shape he wants, and when you open for him properly, when the slick slide of his tongue meets yours and the low sound he makes rumbles through both of you, you feel the train lean in, the whole carriage tipping toward the gravity you’ve become.

You bite him, a small, vicious answer to an ache he kept alive too long, and he breaks the kiss on a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a snarl. “There you are,” he murmurs against your open mouth, not moving away, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a frictionless touch that somehow makes your thighs press harder. “My fierce thing. My…”

“Don’t,” you warn, because the word he almost said is a ruin you are not ready to revisit. He listens, for once, he listens. Instead he palms your throat again, thumb under your chin, the other hand sliding down: over your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the outer line of your arm, like he is reminding himself of the map he used to be able to draw blind.

He takes your wrist and pins it lightly to the window above your head, not forceful but not gentle either. His eyes flick to your other hand, still fisted in his shirt, and he waits. You keep it there, he approves, Gods you can feel his approval, and the heat that unspools between your hips is a low, hungry ache that will not be soothed by suggestion anymore.

“Ask,” you say, throat rough, because you can still make him do that much. “If you’ve changed, ask.” He doesn’t blink. “May I?” He asks it like a vow, like he is carving your consent into the stone of the Dreaming so it can be read back to you in a thousand years.

You should drag him, make him crawl through apologies before you let him lay a finger where you need him most. “Yes,” you breathe, and the glass behind you fogs again with how hot the word is when it leaves your mouth.

His reply is not verbal, his mouth returns to yours in a kiss that has lost its last tether to patience, and his free hand, at last, drops to your hip and closes. The grip is possessive and precise: he slots you to him with the pressure of a palm that has always known exactly how you fit.

He angles you forward, uses the roll of the train to pull your pelvis flush to his, and the hard line of him lands perfectly against the soft, aching place between your thighs. You exhale like a confession, he inhales like an absolution.

“You are so cruel,” you say again, but the word dissolves when he rocks you once, slow, against himself, the friction a dark, pulling thing that steals your knees. His hand leaves your wrist just long enough to catch your hip and set the pace, and then he cages you again above your head because he knows what holding yourself there does to your spine, to your arch, to the way your breasts press into him, to the dangerous, helpless line of your throat under his hand.

“Hold,” he murmurs, and your fingers flex against glass. He rewards obedience with heat: his mouth leaves yours to drag open kisses along your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the soft place where your pulse jumps. He sucks there, slow, decadent, marking you in a plane of existence where ownership is a kind of spell, and when you shiver so sharply your teeth click, he groans at the feel of it… at the way you tremble for him, still fighting it, still giving in.

You push your hips forward for more, for harder, and he laughs against your neck, the sound dark and deeply pleased. “Greedy.”

“You made me like that,” you answer, breathless enough that it sounds like praise, and his answering bite is careful and ruthless and exactly what you asked for.

He drags a palm up your thigh, fingers skimming the hem of your dress, the backs of his knuckles setting spark after spark along your skin. He could rip the fabric away with a thought, but he doesn’t. He wants the ceremony of discovery, ge wants you writhing in a pace he controls.

When his fingers finally slide beneath, cool skin along your overheated inner thigh, your head hits the glass and your mouth falls open on a quiet, shocked sound you never meant him to hear again. He stills, savoring it. “Again,” he says, not a command so much as a request sharpened until it feels like one.

He presses, just a fraction higher, and you give him what he asks for, sound and all, because you want to be the reason he loses the last thin thread of composure he walked in with. He kisses you for it, deep and grateful and greedy, and then, at last, his fingers find the slick heat they were seeking, and the way he exhales against your tongue tells you everything about how long he has been starving for this.

He circles you once, gentle, and your hips jerk into his hand as if drawn by a current. He does it again, slower, crueler, and your knees go loose, your grip on the window the only thing keeping you upright. He rewards your struggle by letting you grind against the hard line of his cock while his fingers tease and deny, tease and deny, and the train’s sway becomes part of his rhythm, an accomplice in your undoing.

“Say you want it,” he whispers into your mouth, and you want to slap him for the gall of it, for needing the confession when your body is already shouting it into his palm. You drag in air and find the shard of steel you keep for him. “You want it,” you counter, and his eyes flash: dangerous, delighted.

“Yes,” he says simply, and the honesty is a blow you feel between your ribs. He presses his thumb to you and your spine bows. “I want you messy.” He glides lower, slicker, and your breath snags. “I want you hoarse.” One finger slides inside, slow, inexorable, and your mouth opens on a sound that has his eyes rolling shut for a heartbeat like he’s been dealt a mercy. “I want you ruined on my hands before I ruin you on my cock.”

You were right to call him cruel, and you were wrong to think you could live without this. “Please,” you say, because pride is a currency and you are done saving it. His forehead drops to yours like the word physically dragged him closer, and his pace changes: less teasing, more intent, two fingers now, clever and patient, his thumb a steady, ruthless metronome that has your thighs shaking, your breath breaking, your body climbing toward a wave you both can see coming from a mile away. He holds you there, hovering, hunting the perfect angle like a scholar solving for x, and when he finds it… the world goes white.

You break against his hand with a shudder that runs the length of you, your voice catching on his name like prayer and profanity at once, and he groans: low, wrecked, victorious, like the sound of you coming just rewired the Dreaming’s stars. He doesn’t stop until you sag against the window and then he slows, murmuring nothing-words against your jaw, against your mouth, his fingers easing you back down as if he’s gentle only at the edges of your destruction.

When you can breathe, you realize he’s shaking. Only a little, a fine tremor where his body presses to yours, where his cock throbs hard and insistent against your belly. You smile, wrecked and unkind. “Suffering?”

“Immensely,” he says, and you love him for the dryness of it, for the way he can sound like midnight and grave-dirt and still be undone by you. “Good.” Your hand finally leaves the window as you put it between your bodies and close it around him through his trousers, and his head tilts back with a sound he does not give other people, a raw thin groan that makes your thighs press together like you could trap it there and keep it. “Then suffer more.”

His laugh is breathless and disbelieving… and then it isn’t a laugh at all, because as your grip tightens, his control snaps, and the next phase is not patient, not gentle, not merciful. “Turn around,” he says, voice gone dark and rough, and this time it’s not a test. It’s a sentence you’ve been waiting to serve since the moment you saw him standing in the aisle.

You do, slowly, hands flattening to the window, your cheek grazing cool glass, your hips angling back because your body knows where this is going and is already there. His hands are at your waist in an instant, dragging you into place, and the way he breathes when he has you lined exactly how he wants is the sound of a king reclaiming his throne. “Mine,” he says, barely audible.

“Not yours,” you counter, because some wars deserve to be fought forever. He smiles into your shoulder, and the press of his mouth there is the last soft thing you get for a while. “Then lend yourself.”

“Fine,” you grit, and he laughs: wrecked, worshipful, and unfastens his belt. It slides through its loops with a sound that feels louder than the train itself, each whisper of leather against fabric winding the spring in your chest tighter. You can’t see him, not properly, your cheek still to the glass, but you can feel the air shift as he loosens the last barrier between your body and his. The small, soft scrape of metal as the buckle swings once is obscene in its intimacy.

You start to look back over your shoulder, but his hand is there instantly, flat and firm between your shoulder blades, pressing… not to hold you down, not yet, but to remind you exactly where he wants you. “Face forward,” he says, voice low enough that it seems to speak from inside your bones. The train rocks, and the window breathes cool against your lips, you obey.

The first brush of him against you is almost nothing, the barest graze, but it draws a startled, sharp breath from your lungs anyway. He hisses softly at the contact, his hand at your hip flexing just enough to pull you back that fraction more. “You feel,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to himself, “exactly as I remember.”

“Then you remember too much,” you manage, though your voice is already too soft, too frayed at the edges to land the blow you intend.

His laugh is quiet, almost indulgent. “Not enough.” His other hand slides along your side, over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip, until his fingers find the hem of your dress again and this time he doesn’t delay.

He drags the fabric up with steady, measured precision, baring you inch by inch until the cool air skims the tops of your thighs, the back of your knees. His knuckles skim over the backs of your legs as he pushes the dress higher still, and your muscles shiver under the touch like they’re caught between retreat and welcome.

When he’s satisfied, the dress is bunched indecently high at your waist, and the exposed skin of your backside is lit by the muted, otherworldly glow spilling through the train’s windows. His palm covers one cheek in a slow, deliberate press, testing the give of you, the angle. You hear him inhale, long and deep, and your stomach drops when he exhales the air in a faint, unsteady sound that borders on reverence.

Then he steps closer. Close enough that his hips align with yours, the hard heat of him settling exactly where you’ve been aching for it. The fabric between you is only the thinnest layer now, and when he rocks forward once, barely more than a pulse of movement, it’s enough to make your fingers curl against the glass.

“You’ve thought of this,” he says, not as a question. His voice is steady, but beneath it you can hear the crack in his control, the strain in his restraint. “Even after you left me, you’ve dreamt of me like this.”

You want to deny him, to throw the truth back in his face, but when his hand at your hip tightens and he grinds that single, slow pass of his body against you again, all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek and breathe like you’re trying to keep your balance on the edge of something dangerous.

“I am in your head even when you hate me,” he says, leaning in until the words slide warm along the shell of your ear. “Especially when you hate me.”

“You’re arrogant,” you bite out, though the tremor in your voice betrays you. “And you’re wet for me,” he replies, and the way he says it, quiet, almost wondering… it robs the words of crudeness and replaces it with something far more lethal. You hate that your body answers for you, the slick heat between your thighs an unignorable truth.

His hand slips from your hip, sliding forward and down, and the tips of his fingers find you with unnerving precision. The low, satisfied hum he gives when he feels exactly what you’ve been trying not to show makes your knees threaten to give way.

He doesn’t rush, he strokes you once, unhurried, a slow sweep that leaves you shivering, then again with just enough pressure to make your head tip forward against the window. His other hand remains at your waist, keeping you where he wants you, not holding you in place so much as making it clear you will not move unless he wills it. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you want me to take you.” You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “If I say it?”

“I will give you exactly what you ask for,” he finishes, his tone smooth as a promise carved in stone. “And if I don’t?” His fingers still for a moment, resting in the wet heat of you, and the quiet between you is filled with the sound of the train and the thud of your pulse in your ears. “Then I will keep you right here,” he says at last, “on the edge, until you are begging to be taken.”

Your eyes slip shut. The threat, if it is a threat, has teeth and they sink into you in a way that makes your thighs press together against his hand. He chuckles low at the motion, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into your back.

“You cruel bastard,” you whisper, but there’s no bite left in it. “Yes,” he says simply, and begins to move his fingers again, slow and deliberate, circling you until you are breathing too fast to keep your head clear. The swaying rhythm of the train becomes his accomplice, adding a subtle forward-and-back sway that works you against him in ways you don’t have the strength to stop. You break first, you always did. “Take me.”

The sound he makes is almost a sigh, but weighted, heavy with satisfaction. His hand leaves you only long enough to free himself completely, the sound of fabric shifting and the faint, warm brush of him against your bare skin making your breath hitch. He aligns himself with a precision that speaks of memory, of knowing exactly how to fit into the space you’ve been carrying for him all this time.

And when he pushes in: slow at first, deliberate, making you feel every inch, it’s like the train itself inhales with you. The stretch of him pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat, and he groans in response, his hands gripping your hips with a force that borders on desperate.

“Still perfect,” he says against your ear, the words almost too soft to catch. He pulls back, then drives in again, harder this time, and your palms flatten against the glass as if bracing for the quake.

The pace he sets is not hurried, but it is deep and thorough, each thrust measured to drag against every place inside you that makes your breath catch, to make you feel him for long, aching seconds after he withdraws. His hands guide you into every motion, hips angling you to take him deeper, the glass before you fogging more with each exhale.

“You remember this,” he says between thrusts, his voice a low tide you could drown in. “Your body remembers me even when you pretend not to.” You want to deny him again, to fight, but the words dissolve in your mouth with every movement of his hips.

All that’s left is sound, soft and broken, answering the rhythm he’s building between you until the train seems to be carrying you both somewhere far past the end of the line. He holds the pace for as long as he can, deep and deliberate, as if dragging you over coals just to feel the way you burn for him.

But the longer he’s inside you, the tighter the heat coils low in your body, the more your hips start to move in small, instinctive rolls against him, chasing every thick drag of him through you… the more you can feel that control starting to splinter.

It starts in his breath… that low, even rhythm you know so well begins to fray at the edges, a fraction heavier each time his hips meet yours. Then his fingers tighten on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pulse of his need there, hot and restless under the pale skin.

And then he groans: a real sound, raw and thick, spilling from deep in his chest as he drives into you harder, faster, as if the slow ache he was building is no longer enough. The Dreaming seems to know as the floor rocks harder beneath your feet, the glass vibrating faintly under your palms, the sound of the wheels below growing louder… as though the realm itself is caught in the same fever. Outside, the impossible sky darkens, clouds boiling low and lit from within by lightning that arcs and fades before it can strike.

His hips snap forward again, the force jolting you into the window, your cheek fogging the glass with every breathless exhale. You make a small, helpless sound, and it seems to rip the last thread of patience out of him.

One hand leaves your waist and slides up your spine, following the curve until his palm is splayed between your shoulder blades. He presses you into the glass, the new angle dragging him deeper, and the sound that leaves your mouth is half shock, half plea. His other hand stays anchored at your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you while his body drives into yours with a rhythm that’s nothing like the measured control he arrived with.

“I could keep you here,” he murmurs against the back of your neck between thrusts, his voice roughened, unpolished now. “In this dream. Until you scream my name and forget your own.”

The words shouldn’t make you clench around him, shouldn’t make your body arch back into his like you’re offering yourself up to be taken exactly as he’s promising. But they do, and he feels it, you can tell by the deep, shuddering groan that breaks against your skin and the way his hips slam harder into yours, as though chasing that reaction again.

The window fogs so thick you can no longer see the lightning outside. All you can see is the faint reflection of him behind you: tall, dark, his body pressed to yours in perfect alignment, his eyes half-lidded but locked on you with something between hunger and possession. “You were mine,” he says, low and certain, each word punctuated by the relentless push of his body into yours. “You will be again.”

“You think,” Your voice catches on a sharp gasp as he thrusts deep enough to make your toes curl. “…you can just take what you want.”

“Yes,” he says simply, and his hand leaves your back to slide up, fingers curling around your throat from behind. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there, your head tipped back against his shoulder as he leans in close enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “And you will let me.”

The hand on your hip drags you back into each thrust, the force of it echoing up through your spine until you can’t tell if the trembling in your legs is from the strain of standing or the sheer overload of sensation. Your palms slide against the fogged glass, searching for something to anchor you, but all you can feel is him, filling you, pressing against the deepest, most sensitive places inside you until your breath comes in broken, desperate fragments.

He tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growls, “Say it.” You know what he means and you want to hold it back, to keep the last scrap of defiance between you. But then his hips grind forward at the end of a thrust, his thumb stroking the pulse at your throat, and the pressure that’s been building inside you bursts.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice breaking around the word. “Yes, I am…” The rest is lost in a sharp cry as your climax slams into you, your body clenching hard around him, heat washing through you in waves. He keeps moving, riding you through it, his rhythm stuttering now as the muscles in his abdomen tighten against your back.

“Mine,” he rasps, the word dragged out of him like a confession as he drives into you one last time, holding deep as his own release shudders through him. You feel the pulse of it, the deep, hot flood inside you, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly as his hips press flush to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The train hums around you, the sky outside bleeding slowly back toward pale, and his forehead drops to the back of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

For a while, all there is is breath: yours, quick and uneven, fogging the glass in front of you and his, slower but still frayed at the edges, warm against the back of your shoulder. The train hums steadily beneath your feet, the sway of it gentler now, as if the whole realm has exhaled with you. Outside, the lightning is gone, replaced by a low stretch of violet cloud and the shimmer of distant stars.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. His hips stay flush to yours, the hard line of his body braced along your back like he’s anchoring you there, or himself. One of his hands leaves your throat and drifts down, slow and almost absent, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, holding you in place with nothing more than that cool, steady weight. The other hand still cradles your hip, thumb stroking over the bone in a motion so lazy and unconscious it almost feels like a slip in his armour.

When he finally moves, it’s not retreat but a shift, easing back just far enough to free you without breaking the seal of his body from yours entirely. The change lets you draw your first real deep breath in minutes, though your knees threaten to buckle with it. He notices, of course he does.

His hand at your stomach curls, supporting you as he murmurs against your ear, “Easy.” The word is low, not a command but a tether, and it keeps you upright even as your muscles tremble.

You expect him to step away then, to smooth his coat and put distance between you like he always did after moments like this in the past, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays close enough that you feel the whisper of his trousers brushing the backs of your thighs as he lets go of your hip and slides that hand down, fingertips trailing over the curve of your ass in a touch so light it borders on reverent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that edge of possession that makes your skin prickle. “You did that,” you manage, though the heat has softened in your tone, the bite dulled into something nearer to surrender.

“Yes,” he agrees, and his hand shifts from your hip to the outside of your thigh, smoothing down until his palm cups the back of your knee. “And I could do it again.” The promise is spoken as if it were fact, as if the dream itself would conspire to make it true.

You finally turn your head enough to see him in the reflection of the window: pale, sharp, his eyes still shadowed with the remnants of hunger. His gaze catches yours in the glass, and for a moment you’re not sure whether the heat that stirs in your chest is from what’s just happened or the knowledge that he’s looking at you like he’s still not finished.

His hand leaves your stomach only to slide around your side, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. The touch is slow, teasing, but not without care, he’s reading the give in your body, measuring how much you’ll let him take now that the sharpest edge has dulled.

“You’re still here,” you murmur, not entirely meaning it as a question. “Where else,” he says, “would I be?”

It’s too soft of an answer for the man you knew before, the man you left. It sits between you like a new and fragile thing, but before you can test it, his mouth is on your shoulder, lips parting just enough to let his breath warm your skin. The kiss that follows is slow, coaxing rather than claiming, though the arm around your waist tightens infinitesimally, as if to remind you that letting you go has never come easily to him.

The train rocks again, more gently now, the rhythm syncing with the slow drag of his lips along the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “You could stay,” he says quietly, as if the thought just occurred to him, but you know better. He’s been thinking it since the moment he stepped into your dream.

“And if I don’t?” you ask, though the question lacks the venom it once would have carried. His smile is a ghost against your skin. “Then I will find you again, and again, hntil you stop running from what you want.”

It should feel like a threat… instead, it feels like a promise, one your body has already betrayed you by leaning into.

ꨄ: @kpopgirlbtssvt @blackthorngirl @starksztony

#╰ ☾ ✧ ˖ 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 #absolute masterpiece the writing and characterization are *chef's kiss*

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