A darkness lush like freshly sliced strawberries. A light as sharp as spice, oh this being is filled to the brim with what can only be a feast. The Corinthian gulps another mouthful down, pieces together a glimmer of starlight before his eagerness results in a near scald, must spoon-feed what he wants instead of pouring it down his throat. He must sip slower to take in the rest. It shapes, taste becoming sight; a slim figure all in black, black just as the Corinthian is dressed too, what feels new to him but not for them. Have they ever matched colours before?

The Corinthian doesn't think so.

It's hard to get teeth around him without risking another searing scald, but reward is worth the risk. This being makes for a delicious picture. Pale skin and wild dark hair, every sharp feature walking the line of starved, all these delightfully slender little bones under his skin. The whole of him delicious right down to the full pink lips pressed to one impassive, thoughtful line.

But the eyes.

The eyes are a clear, starry night.

And that first taste was all it took for the Corinthian to know this person as mine.

There is other knowledge too. Rising now. Loading like a memo printed for him to read. It's how he knows what he is. It's not how the Corinthian knows his own name. Something prerecorded tells him how to answer what he’s asked, how to speak, information formulated from summarised, second hand knowledge another version of himself might also have known. But his name? No. That he'd known already. It's how he knows this—the Corinthian has been remade, doesn't know why, vows to find out, has a starting point at least.

Only one person who could have done it, both created him now and destroyed him some time in the past. They stand here glowing starlight. The impersonal memo the Corinthian has awoken to that said this was his creator, his lord.

But king or not the Corinthian knows this being with his pretty eyes belongs to him.

Dark glasses settle onto his face. His Lord puts them on for him, and the Corinthian sees the long fingers flex as they withdraw—what chance is there he'd miss it? The Corinthian is a nightmare built for catching, isn’t he?—catches now, catches that minute little jerk. The Corinthian sees the moment those elegant fingers twitch towards his cheek as if they want to touch.

Why doesn't he touch?

Is he shy?

The Corinthian doesn’t think this being has ever been shy. There is delight to see something like it now. Delight and hunger. Aching in his teeth. An itch in the enamel. He wants to tell this pretty thing that he can touch if he wants, wants to coax him to it, wants to deny him too. Oh does he want that. The Corinthian wants to get him under his hands, press him up against a wall and—

“Er. Boss?” The interruption comes to raise his hackles; annoying, familiar too, disruption always from the beak of a raven. “He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you. I told you he was just like the first one. This is a terrible idea.”

Eat him?

Well now there’s an idea.

“I won’t hurt you.” The Corinthian croons, all southern comfort and honeyed promise he instinctively knows, best done intimate, though he doesn’t step forwards to deliver it. He smiles invitingly instead. “Unless you want me to, beautiful.”

Dream—yes, that’s his name, a pretty name for a pretty face—of the Endless blinks.

A single flutter of ink dark lashes, so very inconspicuous for how it's all that shifted in that otherwise still expression. It catches the Corinthian's attention as surely as that twitch of his fingers had. He's primed for it, realises, rediscovers exactly what that feels like, to be made for catching minute movements like when prey is about to bolt. Behind Dream a woman—Lucienne, his mind supplies, sneers and scoffs the name—frowns and purses her lips.

The raven splutters.

“Corinthian,” Dream says—ooh that voice, he wants to lick it from that mouth, wants to hear it tremble—paying no mind to what disruption is occurring behind him, addressing the Corinthian as if he hasn’t heard anything but ‘yes, my lord’. The clear night of his eyes focused like a hawk. “Come. I have a task for you.”

Hmm.

A tough one isn’t he, the Corinthian’s inscrutable Lord. It’s also not something that surprises him. Somehow this is expected behaviour. There is a ghost of bitter, snarling anger in response, but that’s easily quenched. The Corinthian knows what isn’t of use to the hunt. He knows what only steals his focus. Reactive. Pointless. No he needs to learn what led to his previous destruction. The Corinthian can be patient. He needs to puzzle out what keeps him from his pretty little Dream. Does he not know who he belongs to?

That’s a shame.

The Corinthian is fair though, will be gentle when he reminds him.

It's far from ideal, but the Corinthian would be much more irritated about it if he wasn't certain he'd barely be gone long enough for that to outweigh the favour it'll grant in return when he succeeds. Besides, this little ‘mission briefing’ has given him a valuable chance to observe Dream of the Endless while his attention is split. It's an undeniable advantage. The Corinthian already knows his quarry will be tricky. So he watches closely.

He wants to learn how Dream moves.

How he speaks.

He finds still more in how the mortals skepticism draws out something sweet for him to enjoy, each protest effortlessly rebuffed. The Corinthian hides his smirk as he listens, silent and watchful as he collects what knowledge is shared. He's intrigued by what he learns about his previous self, the idea of killing dreamer's for real makes his mouths water with hunger, the forbidden nature of it sending lightning arching right down to his toes. Just as sweet as the fear in the mortals subconscious as she tries to persuade the King of Dreams into changing his mind about sending the Corinthian with her to retrieve the missing kid.

There is something particularly interesting there because when Dream speaks of the Corinthian he does so with pride. For both of them—the one the one he remade and the one he destroyed.

Yes his lord missed him, didn’t he?

It's so obvious.

Enough to remake the Corinthian like this. Yes, this is all him, him then and him now—brought back but not really brought new. More than scraps, more than an echo. He'd been unmade as punishment and oh how gratifying it is now, even more so than he'd thought, because he can hear how pleased Dream is to have him back.

The Corinthian is pleased to have been missed.

And so the next time Dream walks close, circles the throne room to stand beside him as he continues to address the mortal he’s brought here, the Corinthian acts.

He doesn't really care about having an excuse ready when he reaches for Dream’s hand, the Corinthian simply takes what he wants, finds he’s not the slightest bit surprised by the cold temperature even if it’s this first time this body has felt it. He raises his other hand to cup at the slender fingers in his hold. Begins gently massaging heat into them, wants to see if it will sink into his skin, wants that knowledge now, finds the question an unfamiliar thing. A new sensation without a ghost to haunt it.

Ah, a first time then.

How lovely.

The skin doesn't warm. But it is silk soft, under his own it feels rarer than gold, singular like some extinct type of muslin no one else has ever touched.

The Corinthian will see to it they never will.

Dream pauses, head tilting in his direction when the Corinthian looks up to meet his eyes; he winks, smirks and doesn't even put any effort into creating a convincing excuse, “You’re freezing, my Lord. Let’s warm you up a bit hmm?”

Pale blue eyes regard him placidly, the stars in them not currently deigning to appear, “I am always this temperature.” Dream replies flatly.

“Maybe no one’s tried hard enough to keep you warm.” The Corinthian finds his way closer, is taller by a good few inches—what inspired that choice my lord?—smiles. Idly continues running his fingers across every inch of Dream's hand, movements thoughtless in ease, as if it could possibly be an accident. He softens his voice, lowers it too, “You’ll let me take care of you, my Lord?”

Nearly unnoticed by them both is Johanna Constantine, whose jaw drops in an incredulous gape. Her eyes widen, “Oh shit.”

There is no one to commiserate.

The throne rooms other occupants don't even glance her way. It is noted that Dream has not pulled his hand out of the Corinthian’s grasp. There’s no outward sign this is bothering him, because if he wanted to they both know just how fast the King of Dreams could make his displeasure known. Though Dream is frowning. His brow has furrowed. Dream holds the Corinthian's gaze intently with those gorgeous eyes of his, such blatant temptation—though for what exactly the Corinthian doesn’t know, but it's a something that waits on the tip of his tongues—not yet starlit and still so bright. “Corinthian, do you know who I am?”

The Corinthian laughs, soft, he’s answered this already, “Of course. You are Dream of the Endless. The King of the Dreaming. The Prince of Stories—”

Dream nods, the frown smoothing slightly. “Good.”

“—and you’re mine.”

The frown is back.

Dream blinks again, slow and delicate, just as he’d done when the Corinthian had been remade, and the Corinthian wonders if it's what happens when he’s truly baffled. Yes. That makes sense. It fits with what he knows, what else he's learned in the limited time he's existed so far. Oh Dream’s a subtle one isn’t he, quiet and solemn and difficult to truly read.

Johanna coughs.

At best it's a halfhearted attempt to get their attention.

The Corinthian isn’t listening.

“Yours?” Dream replies.

There's a dangerous undertone to his words.

Deadly even—a warning if ever the Corinthian has heard one, a warning if ever he's first heard one—soft and slow with a promise that makes his throat go dry and his teeth ache. Dream sounds like he's testing the word in his mouth, tasting it for a crime, judgement made and sentencing to follow once the Corinthian repeats how he's guilty. But the Corinthian had never stopped, still continues a gentle back and forth across icy knuckles and still Dream shows no inclination to pull his hand away.

The Corinthian smirks.

In fact he’s more than happy to prod, to see if he can really get some thunder rumbling. There’s a skill to crafting the specific insult he stitches into his voice. “You do know what a strip tease is right?”

Dream’s eyes don’t quite flash, but his tone implies that if the Corinthian plays his cards right there may well be lightning on the way.

“Corinthian.”

Ah.

Now there’s that lovely, tasty morsel of a warning.

“Oh, so you don’t you think you can do it?” The Corinthian mocks, all shit eating grin and cruel cooing condescension, shivering with the pleasure of testing Dream without so much as a ‘my lord’ for plausible deniability.

He rakes his gaze down Dream’s black clad form, over the black coat, the sleeves going right down to fall over the wrists, the high neckline of his t-shirt touching the delicate base of his throat, a reminder of what had started this. It’s modest. It’s practically virginal. Seriously even those tight black jeans are hidden beneath the coat, the perfect cling of them unappreciated. The Corinthian still leers of course, enjoys him right down to the ankles, then drags his eyes right back up, teeth skimming even from so far away, smirking the whole time. “So shy. So uncertain. You already put all those layers on, surely you can take them back off?”

Dream’s expression doesn’t so much as buckle.

Humiliation slides right off him. Pride though, well, that stays right where it is; a heavy drag at Dream’s unsmiling mouth, a torch in his glowing eyes, still just a precursor to lightning. Dream has a dignity so prim he makes it look bored.

And a criticism so sharp it cuts steel.

“This is inane.”

“Don’t worry baby, I can talk you through it if you want.” The Corinthian’s crooning tone is pointed, dirty, demeaning in all the ways that get a nightmare like him running hot. He knows his tastes alright, and this is one of them—treating Dream like he’s just a thing never fails to get him off. “You’ll be earning top dollar in no time.”

For a moment Dream just looks at him.

And the next he’s dragging a chair to the middle of the room.

One hand wrapped around the back; all manual labour, no powers bar the initial conjuration, the Corinthian treated to the sight of him getting physical with it just like a human. Dream positions it to his satisfaction, then steps back, gestures towards it with one flick of his head, imperial, still a king holding court even as he’s inviting the Corinthian to quite a different show. It’s unclear what changed his mind. Dream hardly forthcoming; remains so solemn and cold when the Corinthian chuckles, when he slinks towards the chair, stopping just short of sitting in it, arms crossed, smirking challengingly because fuck yeah Dream might actually be doing this but the Corinthian is far from impressed yet.

“C’mon Dream,” he croons, another assessing glance from head to toe. “Let’s see how well you can perform.”

There is no retort.

Just Dream hands rising to the collar of his coat.

The jaw is still set; firm, he holds disappointment a beat longer, a curtain call, a moment granted for the audience to find their way to silence. To ensure attention is in the right place.

All at once the expression melts seamlessly into something else; pouty, bedroom eyes, a come hither that damn near punches the Corinthian full in the chest. Tricks him into an inhale he doesn’t even need then lodges the breath right in his throat. The wild disarray of dark hair compliments devastatingly well. Dream looks the kind of hazy that only comes with a good, hard fuck, and the Corinthian feels hazy like he’d already been fucked, and shit it’s not even started yet. Dream is still slipping the coat from his shoulders, all long elegant fingers, all electrifying eye contact, times like these that he meets the empty pits of the Corinthian’s eyes like he can fill them at a distance.

And as always the Corinthian opens his eyes to take as much of it in as he can.

Because Dream’s full attention crams every spark of his light and cold darkness right between the Corinthian’s greedy teeth.

They haven’t even touched.

Dream isn’t even close enough to reach with an outstretched hand. The coat drops, a shadow left to pool on the floor; Dream prowling forwards—yeah, he actually fucking prowled—a stalk to his stride that has never actually been needed. It manifests here like a predator strutting down a runway, like a wild god, like a monster showing up to Paris Fashion Week fresh from the slaughter and taking to the stage still covered in blood. The Corinthian watches each deliberate step and knows this is how a demon decides to preen. Dream doesn’t stop when he reaches him, only slows, then circles, silent steps around him and the chair, right hand raised and near touching.

Not quite though. The Corinthian feels it still in how the air quivers just above his shoulder, feels it fluttering across his back, twitching like he stands beneath the beating of wings.

It's only when Edwin scoffs with his usual dignified affront that Charles can breathe again.

But there remains a shadow in his friends green eyes.

And Charles still doesn’t know its exact shape, doesn’t know for sure what's tormenting his friend—has seen him with dolls, in houses, on cases, has seen unflappable, steady handed Edwin shaking as he turns their heads away—but through it Charles sees the silhouette of a nightmare. There's a part of this he knows enough of to understand. Charles can see a journal rendered useless, a trap sealed all the way, a maze constructed so that no matter how precise a map is it will never, ever matter. An oversight corrected by a monster that’s only saving grace had been it never saw escape as a possibility.

The Cat King’s gift introduces a terrifying what if.

One that replays over and over in Edwin's eyes, whispers every time he looks at it. The creeping, niggling fear that perhaps the second time his captor will be smarter.

And Charles can’t soothe that.

He can’t change it. He can only listen to the tightness in his friends voice, how sometimes it goes high and sharp as if he’s forgotten to breath, as if Edwin has forgotten that he doesn't need to. Charles can only listen and seethe and wish that he knew how to break that fucking binding spell.

He watches Edwin realise he's trapped in one place without the assurance of being able to run.

Even in hell he’d had that.

At least Dream knows there’s a trap to avoid. At least he knows it’s one he can’t simply break. At least he knows all he can do is stay still. The Corinthian laughs against Dream’s lips.

He’ll get what he wants.

But for now the Corinthian will taste his prize. He bites Dream's lips in teasing acknowledgement, then leans down to press a soft, mocking little kiss to the hollow of his throat, trails his tongue across the line of one delicate collarbone. It can be nothing else but victory. A win that’s undeniable. After centuries of wondering the Corinthian has an answer at last, breaks a previously impassible boundary and learns in one instant the flavour of a god.

Fuck Dream tastes divine.

The Corinthian licks starlight as it spills out of him, groans at how good it burns, laps it up without a care for the blasphemy committed by deciding his own fill. There’s no need to rush, despite that pesky little time limit on this spell; it’s greed not impatience that drives him to reach down to spread thin legs, to grope his way upwards, to push probing fingers inside.

Dream doesn’t look at him.

But even in side profile it’s clear the avoidance isn’t shame, isn’t fear.

He’s bored.

The Corinthian won’t have that.

There is no sting to his pride—not when things are only just getting started, not when he's barely touched at all—because the Corinthian will see him crack. He’ll find what makes Dream fight and then rob him of the ability to even struggle.

It’s time to increase the pressure a little.

E - Corintheus, Untitled 5+1

Evening comes and the Corinthian finds himself doodling, unable to help it, a way to think, an outlet as much as a knife has ever been. The lines are smooth even while distracted, even while careless, a neatness in how he shades even without full concentration. There will be no sloppy lines when the Corinthian wields a pencil as expertly as a blade. Artistry is a part of him it seems; a facet of his bones, perhaps an imprint of Dream’s desire to create still lodged in the Corinthian’s throat.

An imprint of humanity. Alive in the remnant of his creators first touch.

It's a humanity the Corinthian will always long to taste. Embracing his hunger for it dual edged, a bitterness unfolding, the truth revealed here and now, revealed when the Corinthian looks down and sees what he’s actually drawn. The first sketch in the top left corner of the page is a familiar figure. It’s the last time he saw Dream; cloaked in black with his face covered by his helm, one hand raised and clasped around a glowing ruby.

There’s another directly below it.

This one of Dream in his flimsy silk robe; stood before the carved stone of his throne, features as delicate as the fine masonry, hair wild. Even in charcoal he’s beautiful.

Well.

The Corinthian doesn't hesitate to tear the entire the page out.

That’s quite enough of that.

A - Untitled, Corintheus fic with asexual!Dream

And the Corinthian had never seen this look in his creators eyes. They swept up and down his body.

Appraising him.

That he’d had before, but not like this, not in clear intent. In all the years following the Corinthian’s creation there had never been so much as a single sexual pass, never a single comment that could be seen as even the slightest bit flirtatious. There had been no lingering glances. No lingering touches. It was something the Corinthian knew for definite. He'd spent centuries fucking humans, preying on them, luring them in, and he knew exactly what someone looked like when they were interested in him.

Even if they were trying to hide it.

So yes, the Corinthian was certain he'd never picked up on so much as whisper of interest from Dream. And yeah. That had rankled. What could he say?

The Corinthian would always be greedy for what he’d never had.

So now he felt this appraisal like a sun he’d never stood under. 

Because Dream smiled; flirty, effortlessly alluring, a coy little thing as if this thing had ever been coy.

It closed around him like a vice.

R – Untitled, Corintheus AU (AU setting still a secret)

“Right. Well. I had an idea.” Matthew begins, foreboding enough even without Morpheus standing right beside him. The schemes of that fluttering mind might often border on genius but they were also always utterly insane. “So I spoke to Morpheus and he agreed to help.”

“Help with what.” 

“Our Nightmare problem.”

Everyone stiffens.

Only Morpheus seems immune to the sudden tension.

He doesn’t even seem to notice it, instead picking up right where Matthew left off.

“I will guard your minds from Nightmare’s manipulations,” Morpheus says softly. “Both as you sleep and when you are awake.”

“Matthew—“ Gault says then, not bothering to lower her voice or hide the suspicion curling within it, her brown eyes fixed on the black clad interloper their raven has brought home. Not quite the shiny bauble a creature like him usually collects. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Matthew loops an arm around Morpheus, drapes it confidently—and a little protectively? oh no that means he’s already attached, imprinted like a little duckling and that means they’ll never be rid of him—around those thin shoulders. They're about the same height, but Morpheus is far slimmer, almost skeletal in comparison, pale and regal and frowning minutely at the touch. Matthew smiles brightly, so very guileless, an intense wattage beaming ‘you can trust me!’, a blindingly sickening expression the Corinthian has always found more than a little nauseating. There’s nothing bitter in it, nothing gritty, a slippery trustworthiness as soft as the blubber of a well fattened seal.

The Corinthian often considers it a personal failing that this man is his best friend.

T - Corintheus, Masquerade fic

The Corinthian knew sweet talking Dream out of being angry was unlikely to succeed, but that didn’t really matter, not when he’d been made for temptations outside of limits. Outside of possibility. It was in the Corinthian's bones to try; to approach this how he did a dreamer—his dreamers, those dark and twisted things that put their minds in his hands—to dare name Dream the same. To drag him into that realm of things the Corinthian called mine. 

“How about a dance.”

“A dance.”

He played contrite, teeth a coy gleam behind the glasses—just your sweet little nightmare milord—knew Dream liked it when even his monsters showed him their throat.

Tagging: @aisalynn, @bobbole, @windsweptinred @the-everqueen and anyone else who'd like to play.

It was a fine thing for that to be the first thing she witnessed, the first discovery she made of him. Calliope had not seen it on this face—younger, so similar and yet not that at all—watched and learnt the way these features softened and found it lovely. 

“Daniel.” He said; still Dream’s voice, low and soft, not quite like hearing a ghost though, not when the voice of a dream had always been so much more than what was left by the dead. “I chose it.”

There was pride in that.

A child’s. Not immature, just fresh, untainted. Calliope's smile widened even as tears began to well in her eyes. “Very well then Daniel.”

“You may also call me Dream.” He added. 

Calliope nodded. “It’s who you are.”

Another smile.

“It is.”

-

Calliope had been invited.

She found herself curious as to why now.

“What has made things different?” Calliope asked, knowing she was here for more than to attend a funeral. “Morpheus was never ready, you are all he was…”

Daniel waited once she trailed off.

He stood silent while confirming that Calliope wasn’t going to continue. It was only then that Dream picked up the thread Calliope had dropped, it was only then that he revealed that he'd caught it as it fell. “You wish to know what I gained?”

It wasn’t a surprise that he’d untangled her question so effortlessly.

Calliope found that remained just as unsettling as Dream’s perception could so often be. Precise in the way a scalpel was; it cut out only what was needed, went as deep as was required by the wound, cut expertly but it still cut. He was right. Calliope did wish to know what he’d gained, though until he’d said that she’d not been sure it was the right word, the right definition. Daniel Hall had been human. Morpheus had always been Endless.

Calliope didn’t know what to think of the amalgamation of that.

Perhaps she never would, but she could still use a perception all her own to try and find both sides of its coin. “Yes, what you gained…and what you lost.”

“I…” Dream paused but didn't stumble, paused not to find the words but to feel them. “I lost them both. I gained them both. We joined and so became new.”

“Changed.”

“Yes.” He shrugged, so simple a motion for so large a truth. “What is that for one such as me? What can it be. To change is to die, and to die is to change.”

“Our son died.” Calliope said quietly.

“I know.” Daniel said. “I know what that is now.”

“I don’t.” Calliope admitted, her own simple statement for far too large a truth. “Not like a mortal does. How can I mourn when—“

Daniel took her hand. “You can mourn with me.”

Oh.

He was kind, wasn’t he?

So very kind, just like her Oneiros had been. Daniel was dark like him too; sharp, resplendent in it, somehow refreshed like a mortal was after a long sleep, less worn and weary in a world the same as when they'd closed their eyes. The nightmare in him reborn too, as it should be, that cruel aspect rejuvenated because it had never been a wound to cast out. Calliope had never needed to find Dream in the darkness, had never forgot enough of him to try, had known no hand was needed to pull him out of what might be dark but would always be him.

The full spectrum of what a dream was; Dream was as soft as he was sharp, the hand that now held Calliope's was as cold as the action was warm, Dream was cruel—

He was kind.

“It takes time, doesn’t it? For us.” Calliope said quietly, part of her always standing two thousand years away. “How long can grief last when one lives forever.”

Daniel considered that for a moment, heard its threat, its hope. “Perhaps even grief must die.”

“Must change?”

He smiled, this time a little impish, a mischievousness familiar and utterly unique. “Indeed.”

Calliope sighed. “I do not think mine can change the way yours did.”

“No.”

“I suppose that is true for humans too.” Calliope continued, then tested specifics, tested going as far down another thread as she could and wondering if he might once again pick it up. “For other parents. Other mothers.”

Calliope didn't trail off this time, dropped the thread all the same, deliberate and—

It changed hands.

“I have lost a son,” Dream said, his eyes as green as the place where the Bacchante had torn Orpheus apart, as green as the forest that had continued growing nonetheless. “And I have been a son who is lost. I have been taken and I have been taken from. I know what hurts you, Calliope the muse, and I would mourn with you if you’d allow me.”

“You lost a mother.” Calliope realised; breathed it like an ode, where grief expressed the fullest, felt an answer resonate as what could only be given as poetry.

“I am Daniel.” He said, somehow agreed, somehow refuted too, both acknowledged what grief that was and what it couldn’t be. His pause was what lay between stanzas, what inspired the next one to begin. “But I am not Daniel Hall.”

Oh Dream. 

A baby had died—oh that hurt, the thought of Orpheus dead like that, the thought of him having so little time—a mother grieving what could never, ever come back. They had spoken of loss, of Morpheus, of Daniel, because there were really two deaths in this one life. A new pain in that to match what else was gained. Refreshed Dream may be but there was always a burden to bear, always one to carry. That was life, was dreams and nightmares, was balance and perhaps it was restricting to call that a caveat. It was neutrality perhaps, a scale that could tip both ways.

It wasn’t failure that made this hurt.

Calliope nodded. “Then perhaps we can mourn him too?”

Perhaps Dream had tested the dropping of a thread this time. Daniel stilled, looked at her searchingly; eyes now black and aglow with stars, the wonder of looking up at the sky, the wonder of looking down at the earth. They shared that between them. Calliope found herself remembering Orpheus—a child asking to stay up late, an adult asking if she’d like to meet his future wife—remembered a searching look that said I need to be sure.

That said do you really mean it?’

She’d never seen it in Dream, found it now. This fragile sort of wondering, this want revealed as if he’d not yet thought he’d be given the gift. 

As if he’d not known he’d be granted the right. 

Dream nodded at last.