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It is not often you get to wake up to the morning rays of sun caressing with gilded fingers of a lover Morpheus' face, for he usually leaves to attend to his kingdom long before you start to stir in your shared bed.
You know he's not asleep, but, rather, drifting to distant shores that are not for you to fathom, but this knowledge doesn't deter you from keeping completely still as you look – admire – at his dark form, silent and unmoving so as not to tear him from his placid slumber.
Your favourite trait of his – a cosmos of liquid darkness where two distant pins of silver, starry light pulse at the very centre – is currently concealed by diaphanous, relaxed eyelids, long black lashes casting a soft shade over his high cheekbones.
He still looks thin and gaunt, but the sickness hollowing out his face after his seventy-year-long imprisonment has finally started to recede.
Your gaze languidly drifts on the not-quite-hidden expanse of his chest, his skin, normally the colour of falling snow and as cold as alabaster, now touched by the warm rays of sun, the silky bedsheets covering him only up to his narrow hips. Your fingers tingle with the craving of tracing the outline of his ribs and then down, further down, descending along his flat lower abdomen, gently – almost timidly – chasing after his happy trail of black hair.
Curling your hands beneath your pillow for self-restraint, you look away and back to his peaceful expression, lips parted to let out gentle puffs of breath to match yours. As an Endless and the anthropomorphic incarnation of an abstract, fleeting concept such as dreams, he doesn't really need air to keep functioning and alive, so the faint rise and fall of his chest going in perfect tandem with your own has your heart grow all soft and fuzzy.
You don't know what to do with all the love you're feeling in this moment, your body sliding closer to his, further entangling your legs together. You just can't get enough of the feeling of his cool skin brushing against yours, of the sight of him regally sprawled over your bridal bed.
His hair, but a nest of locks as black and shiny as a raven's feathers, absorb the sunlight in fragments of iridescent blue, now long enough to skim over his shoulders.
This time you can't stop yourself from touching him and entangle a wavy strand around your index finger, lightly pulling on it. It's but the whisper of a tug and yet it's enough for him to immediately rouse and sleepily greet you.
Good morning, beloved – he mutters, eyes still closed, but lips curling in a small, gentle smile.
You smile in return and, letting go of his messy hair, lift a hand to graze over his mouth with your knuckles as if he's a god and you a penitent kneeling before his shrine. That has him look at you from beneath drowsy lids, the faraway white stars glinting in his black orbs pondering you with affectionate, benevolent amusement.
Dare I ask the reason of such reverence? – His voice sounds like spilled black ink or the deep rumble of a thunder echoing in an empty valley. It reminds you of velvet and languid touches, dark dreams and ancient poetry. Deep and smoky, not quite human. It has you press your knees together as you scoot even closer to him.
No particular reason... I just like your smile. –
Ah, I see. – If you knew any better, you'd say there's some sort of bashful inflection in his tone... or perhaps it's exactly because you know him better than most beings, mortal and not, that you can hear it. For he is not only the coy, kingly Dream of the Endless for and with you, but Morpheus, your lover and husband, and you get to see a glimpse of the most vulnerable, raw and passionate side of him within the intimacy of your private rooms. It is exhilarating, the way this all-too-powerful being, more dangerous and ancient than a divinity, lets his guard down with you and you alone.
And dare I ask why you're still in bed with me? It is rather odd, I'll let you know, not waking up in a cold bed while my lover is busying himself somewhere in the Dreaming. –
If this unusual occurrence causes you such distress, I will see to oblige to your most preferred routine and leave to attend my duties. –
Never said it was my most preferred routine. Actually, it has to be my least favourite way of waking up. – You emphasize with a small pout, fingers now mindlessly drawing circles into his biceps.
His next smile, although still containing some softness within it, is sly, almost a playful smirk, his weight suddenly pressing you down on the mattress.
You readily welcome him into your embrace, one leg sliding up his hip, a small giggle leaving your parted lips as he sighs a kiss against your forehead, drinking into your warmth for some instants, before slowly pulling away to look down into your eyes.
Shall I inquire what it is that you favour, then? – he ponders, pressing the slope of his long nose against your heated cheeks, mouth ghosting on your skin, sultry and yet as delicate as a moth thin wings.
You shall. – A breathless plead as his face instantly nests in the crook of your neck, the tip of his tongue tasting your tensed skin, pulse quickening in response to that feather-like touch alone.
You can't contain the sharp exhale as his teeth graze the column of your exposed neck with utter veneration, heart nearly stuttering to a stop, before trembling, shaking, fluttering like a hummingbird consuming its aphrodisiac nectar.
Is this what you favour, my love? – His voice gently rumbles against your throat, before he's lifting his face to yours, the tips of your noses grazing. The stars in his eyes is all you see, all you wish to see. – Or perhaps this? – His lips meet yours in a sloppy kiss that has your toes curl and insides warm to near combustion.
You welcome it all as you cross your legs around his middle, pressing him down on you, fingers digging into his toned back, caging him into you. A prison he's not willing to escape, as he mutely lets you know with his next kiss. And the next. You're not sure who heaves out a sigh as he gently bites on your lower lip, sucking on it before letting go with a gentle pop, but you're certainly the one left dizzy and needy for more.
Desperately entangling your hands in his mop of black hair, you drag his lips back on yours, whispering promises of love and longing with each sensual stroke.
And when his fingers trace the soft curve of your hips – a trail of stars like liquid, argent fire licking your skin, a languid echo of his godly touch –, before finally joining your bodies in slow, dragging rolls and thrusts, the sky of the Dreaming blooms in lively shades of deep purple, orange and magenta.