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cosmictapestry · 7 months

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A48? 👉👈

A48. tentacles

hi sorry it's so lonf and that there are feelings .

morphienne prompt list + fills here

Lucienne, sorting through some new additions to the library, opens to the middle of a newly drafted graphic novel—and promptly shuts it, surveys her surroundings—and then opens it again.

It is always gratifying to see how many mortal desires can only be captured in the imagination, satisfaction only met in dreams. Sexual fantasies are no exception. Still, she would rather not be seen reading pornography on the job.

The woman in the story is a skinny little white thing, drawn with an exaggerated delicacy that accentuates the obscenity of the slimy, muscular tendrils that invade her orifices. Her expression is twisted in bliss, stretched as it is around the tendril plundering her mouth. Lucienne thinks the whole ordeal looks grotesque. Then she thinks it's rather interesting.

She stares for longer than is strictly necessary. The image on the page shifts and resizes, revisions that haven't been made yet, blurry in the way of unfinished things. The following pages are more of the same, the girl suspended in the air, pinned to the ground, braced against a wall, helpless and beholden to the tendrils' whims. It is very interesting.

Interesting enough that when Lucienne feels Lord Morpheus sweep into the library, she does not try to hide her discovery. Instead she holds it up higher, knowing that in a second's time he will be looking over her shoulder to see what's so captured her attention. Indeed, his shadow falls over the page not a moment later.

He says nothing while she flips through, pausing on a particular image of the tendrils retreating and leaving one to flick gently at the woman's clitoris while she trembles and spasms. The tenderness of it is striking. Lord Morpheus gives a thoughtful hum. "Bipedal humanoids rarely take interest in body plans different from their own," he says. "It appears humans are becoming lenient. Moreso than most of their predecessors."

"Surely you've seen as much in their dreams," Lucienne murmurs, tracing the length of one tendril with her thumb.

"Of course. But to imagine and to produce art are very different things," Lord Morpheus steps out from behind her, looking now at the rest of the bookshelf where, presumably, they'd find more of this content.

Lucienne glances at him without turning her head. "Have you known many bipedal humanoids with such interests?"

"Not personally, no," he says, and his eyes wander back to the open graphic novel.

That seems a shame, to have the King of Dreams as a lover and not explore all the possibility he contains. Of course, knowing him, there's every chance that he would find something in that request to hurt his pride or otherwise make him uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "And. Are you. Interested. In such things?"

Lucienne bites her lip to stop herself from grinning and possibly scaring him away. His request that he could not voice. That makes perfect sense, too. "I cannot say I've ever indulged in this act, in particular." The nature of soft spaces in the Dreaming, and indeed in her own quarters, means that raw dreamstuff is at the command of the imagination. And there have been many an attractive shape to fall in and out of style in the universe. "But I am interested."

She makes him sweat, just a little. He stands there and shifts and looks at the shelf, then back at the book, and not at her at all. "With me?" he asks, finally, in a tiny voice.

The grin breaks onto her face despite her best efforts. "Yes, with you, silly man," Lucienne puts her hand to his sleeve, stretches up to kiss his reddened cheek, which he grunts and huffs about. "Only your slimy tentacles will do."

His noise wrinkles; she kisses it, too. "They need not be slimy," he protests. "And those are tendrils, not tentacles, besides."

She laughs and waves him off with a gentle swat on his arm and a tap on his arse, too, for good measure, and when he disappears from view it's with an amused glare.

Their night begins normally, with Lord Morpheus stepping into their room and Lucienne already there, meeting him with slow kisses to coax out the worries he's sure to have let settle in.

The room looks much the same as usual, which she wonders about until he pulls back enough to speak. "I was thinking. Perhaps. They might come from under the bed," he says. His gaze flickers across her face nervously. "If you are comfortable with that. We might change the narrative from there."

Lucienne pauses heavily. She cards her hand through the hair at his nape. "Why would I not be comfortable?" She has seen everything there is to see in all of time and space. Though that matters little in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, she does not scare easily.

"I think I will enjoy this immensely," Lord Morpheus says, and the predictability of it threatens Lucienne's careful neutrality with compassionate-but-agonized exhaustion. He is asking, as he often does, if she is sure. "And the thought that I might not be. Suitably attentive. Is frightening."

Lucienne hums, plays with his hair, aches for him. He is never less than exactly as attentive as she wants him to be. But, oh, who knows what might happen, if he feels too good, if he likes it too much. "Have you experience with similar practices?"

"I do predate bilateral symmetry," he says, faux-offended. He tips his head forward to avoid her eyes and arch his neck into her hand. He enjoys her attention for a long moment before he speaks again. "I remember. How it felt. To be so close."

Her thumb traces his jaw, nail digging soft into the clenched hinge until he relaxes. "I am not afraid of you enjoying yourself," she tells him. Her lord's shoulders lift on a sigh, because he thinks that isn't what he's talking about. "I've known you by every name, and I'd know you by every shape." She brushes under his eye to feel the flutter of his lashes, then lifts his face to hers. "And I would welcome you as close as you can get."

He's moaning before he's kissing her, feverish hunger, like the limitations of finite-limbedness are only frustrating now in anticipation of something more. He wastes little time with her clothing, taking slow, significant care only in sliding down her knickers, gripping her under the thighs and lifting her, bracing her on his hips with his bulge grinding into her. He doesn't stop kissing her while he walks them to the bed, and she pants to keep up, tongue lolling lazily with his, the friction on her clit honey-sweet and rough until it is gone altogether.

Lord Morpheus lays her down in the sheets, bare and hazy and wanting, and when he retreats entirely to sit at the foot of the bed he leaves her skin buzzing. Draped in soft black, one knee drawn up to his chest, gaze unwavering, he is completely still, taking in the image of her, an offering. "I'm right here," he tells her. She knows he is. His hands are clasped in full view and she feels him touch her.

She turns her head to see the expansion of her lord's material aspect. The width of an inkpot, warm and firm, slippery-wet, soft as velvet, a slip of darkness wraps her wrist. From there it coils up, its course seemingly predetermined, to slide smokelike between her fingers and coil in the palm of her hand. Lucienne stares at it, matte black muscular pulse of shadow, and she notes that it is shivering.

Lucienne sits up, the tendril thrumming in her hand. Its tapered head lifts, seeking, reaching for warmth. With her other hand she strokes along its length, down to where it disappears over the edge of the bed. She looks up when she hears her lord's breath catch. "How sensitive is it?"

He swallows and twitches and pulls his robe closer around himself. "It is. Me," he mumbles. That is the encouragement she needs to lean forward, lips softly parted, and kiss the top of the tendril's head. A shiver runs through him. Gently she draws the tip into her mouth.

Lord Morpheus gasps and rocks and whispers her name. The tendril pulses hot in her mouth and squirms deeper like it has no choice. It is silken-soft, sweet-tasting, muscular and firm on her tongue. It is not thick enough to fill her mouth but it makes a valiant effort, folding on itself, trying to stuff its way in. She pushes forward, makes herself gag on it. He sobs out and pulls back. "Lucienne," he gasps.

Lucienne waits, the tip of the tendril resting on her tongue, and she watches him. He is sweating already, and he pulls his robe away, leaving him in soft shirt and trousers that have begun to stick. He pushes one hand back through his hair while he catches his breath. "Can I—more?"

Her heart soaring, her core aching, she takes him back into her mouth. His head tips back, throat bobbing on a broken groan. Lucienne is too busy watching a bead of sweat course down his neck to notice a second tendril appear until she feels it slip, thick and supple, under her breast. It slicks her skin, touches the other breast, tweaks the nipple, wraps it and pulls.

Lucienne arches her chest into the touch, forces the tendril in her mouth deeper. Wet heat grips her left ankle. She suckles on the length in her mouth—it's getting thicker, swelling—and it calms her while a matching shadow takes her right ankle. Her legs are drawn apart, slowly, and she watches her lord's face, watches the way his nostrils flare when she is spread for him.

Her wrists are grabbed next. Sweetly she is guided back in the sheets, laid out and spread open, squeezed in meaty rhythmic pulses, slick pulses and caresses on her breasts and in her mouth and all across her prickling skin. She groans with her mouth stuffed full and shakes when she feels a push at her core.

The tendrils feel so strong, unshakeable, and the one that teases her folds is no exception. Smearing slickness, heat and pressure, maddening soft texture so tender and teasing, playing, thrusting between her lips, flicking her clit. It's thinner than the ones that tie her down, and as it slips inside her, it feels so nerve-shatteringly smooth and good that her eyes roll.

She's choking, drooling, and she feels—a second tendril, twining with the one inside her, entering her, dragging, throbbing, until she is full, strung through on either end, stretched all around him. He is whispering, now, asking her—"can I lift you? Please, can I—" and she can do nothing but moan and scream yes through their dreamscape.

More tendrils, thicker ones, embracing her waist and upper arms and thighs, lifting her up off the bed, sitting her up in the air. More tendrils stroking her all over, a thin one playing with her clit, another sliding in the cleft of her arse, another between her breasts, leaving her skin shining. Her lord watches. Dream-gravity forces her down on the entwined tendrils and she clenches and comes on them until she cannot tell whose pulse she is feeling.

Still reeling, she is maneuvered above the bed, stretched out, wrists lifted above her head. All she can hear are her own stricken sounds and wet slipping and his ragged, desperate breath. A new, thin tendril plucks at her arsehole, rubs at it, worms its way inside. Her legs spread and twitching, she cannot even struggle to get more contact.

He pulls an orgasm from her like that, with sharp insistent thrusts, until she squeezes hard enough to almost force him out. Then she is horizontal, the thick tendrils binding her arms to her sides, her arse spread, and then she is upside-down, one leg dangling helplessly, and then, eventually, at some point, she is back on the bed.

Lucienne gasps and heaves and the tendril in her mouth slips from her. She feels the graze of soft fabric, not so different from living shadow, as her lord climbs atop her and kisses her shocked-open mouth. He pants and quivers and ruts against her inner thigh. "Please," he gasps, shoving his trousers down, heedless of the copious mess inside, smeared as it is over his cock and thighs. "Please, Lucienne, can I—"

He's wetter than his tendrils are, nudging at her clit, mouthing at her jaw. She's possibly never seen him so desperate. She is exhausted. With the last of her strength she reaches down with a newly freed hand and touches him. His hips jump and stutter and he sobs into her neck when she guides him in alongside the tendrils already inside her.

The stretch is immense. It makes her cry. Overwhelmed, stricken, shocked, she arches her back, takes him, barely, speared impossibly. She comes when he bottoms out. He does, too, when she spasms and grinds him into his own tendrils, squeezes him in soaking heat.

The tendrils do not withdraw. They lie together and pant and shiver and are still. The tendrils disappear entirely, and Lucienne is left loose and open, fluttering around him. "Thank you," Lucienne whispers. She takes his face, pulls him up to kiss away his tears and smooth his fear. "Well done, love, thank you."

#first time writing uhhhhh xeno? terra? whatever. very fun #but um i'll write something serious next unless someomne requests the knotting one hinthinthinthinthinthinthitntthinthtititn #<-said as though there's any telling what i will actually write next . i dont fucking know #the sandman #x #morpheus #dream of the endless #lucid dreaming #morphienne #lucienne the librarian #the sandman fic #minors dni

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