Chapter Text
“What if I say no?”
Dream tilted his head as if confronted with something interesting but ultimately hypothetical. “Our deal will remain unaffected. I will utilise an alternative, this chance will pass you by, never to come again.”
He paused as if wanting to let it sink in.
Then Dream smirked.
“I do not see it becoming an issue.”
Even being trapped for one hundred years hadn’t humbled Dream.
“So fucking sure that I’d even be interested.” The Corinthian scowled, hating the fact that he very much was, hating the way it made him feel predictable. Easy. “Thinking you’re so irresistible.”
Always so sure, so unruffled, even sat on the steps of his shattered throne room, powerless in his shattered realm, speaking as if each word was its own prophecy.
The Corinthian would bet Dream had fun with that, that he enjoyed denying agency to everyone else, in making them pawns in every one of his stupid fucking games. There was a stacking humiliation in being played twice after barely an hour of being back in his creators presence. This should have been a compliment; wasn’t about desire though—wasn’t about anything so delicious as that, wasn’t about Dream wanting him—because this was very clearly about power.
This was about Dream regaining a part of himself.
“Are you seriously going to try and pretend that you’re not?” Dream smiled, amused, looking up at him coyly. “Even if you were not so transparent the fingers you slid so deep into my mouth more than confirmed your interest.”
The Corinthian glared, furious, enraged by the mockery in his tone. “You—”
The taunt died in his throat, the goading insult for how weak he was, because Dream suddenly stood, abrupt, no less graceful a move for how unnatural it was. Joints didn’t move that way, the Corinthian thought with fascinated horror, bones couldn’t twist like that without snapping. And yet they did; the king rose from the steps, almost idle as he stepped over the debris, silent.
He stood there for a moment, lithe and unguarded, and then—
Dream stepped far too close.
A sauntering stride, confidence and arrogance all at once, the tips of Dream’s boots nudging his own, their clothes brushing. No ruby, no helm, no sand; it should have rendered the allure of him useless—reduced him to a shell, a cracked and worthless jewel to be cast aside—because without power what was there to hold him? The Corinthian didn’t know what it meant that he was trapped staring, trapped longing, trapped by an awe for something he shouldn’t even consider appreciating.
This was Dream’s very being bundled up and delivered like a present, tied with a bow the colour of his eyes, everything he was brought close enough to be touched.
Tasted.
All right there, within reach, on offer, unconcerned with what the Corinthian might do to him, beckoning with a tilted head and a salacious smile. “Will you refuse me?”
“No.” The Corinthian breathed, mouth gone dry, heat curling in his gut. He wanted to lean towards him, to sway in his direction, to accept the plunge of gravity. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
Dream had already dismissed him; stepped back, walking towards a door on the left side of the throne room, one slender hand resting on the handle and—
“Are you coming?”
The Corinthian hesitated.
Dream examined him with pale eyes, leeched of colour but still brimming with life. “Or will you try to run?”
Perhaps there was a better option.
He considered the sweep of crimes he’d managed to get written off, the pardon for things Dream didn’t even know the Corinthian had done. Maybe he’d been going about it all wrong, considered the blade he might be able to slip in while allowed close, knew it was a moot point. He’d leave as soon as he fulfilled his promise to help Dream find the ruby. But there was trepidation in that, suspicion, because while the Corinthian hadn’t said he’d stay—
Dream also hadn’t asked.
There was no way he’d overlooked it.
Dream was greedy, cruel. His rules and his realm all he really cared for in the end. The Corinthian should have refused, he knew he should have, but not only was it already too late there was also a twist in even contemplating it because—
The Corinthian was greedy too.
And so he followed.
Through a ruined hall, up a ruined staircase, down a ruined corridor to a door that led at last to a ruined room. His creator stepped delicately over the wreckage; the ceiling had caved in, pulling down a wall when it collapsed, the open sky stretching dark and terrible, so unlike the desert outside. This was place of intimacy, of suggestion if not outright sensuality, the bed drawing the eye like the promise it was, a broken frame covered in a spread of black silk sheets.
This was Dream’s room.
Exposed like a scar.
And for a moment he stood there; still and silent, a dark figure under the yearning stretch of sky, and the Corinthian didn’t know why he felt uneasy at the thought of looking at Dream's face and finding devastation. Had abundance outmatched his appetite? Was it too much of a good thing, a cake so deliciously sweet turning sickly after one bite too many?
“A little ruined for my taste.” The Corinthian said.
His creator glanced over his shoulder, seemed to consider his criticism.
Then he turned back to his room.
It began to reform; the walls, the ceiling, the bed, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t all of it, debris still littering the floor when Dream suddenly stumbled as if persuaded to fall. The Corinthian now noticed something lacking in the glow of Dream’s otherwise gleaming skin. He was still starlight, couldn’t be anything else, but the colour was slightly off, the wrong spectrum perhaps, a sickly undertone like jaundice. It made him look starved, anaemic almost, a hint of rust, as if Dream needed to lay under the sun to soak himself back up.
But there was no sunlight here, not like there’d been in the desert.
It was so out of place, so alien, so strange to see, but there was also something compelling about seeing his king struggle to repair a single room. The Corinthian was caught staring, only realised how he watched with hunger when Dream raised a brow, quirked lips amused, a preen under the attention.
Of course he’d feel smug about being desired like this.
“How do you want it?” The Corinthian purred, gaze a bold leer he’d never believed he could get away with. “What will give you the most power?”
Dream paused to think. “I will need to take it from you.”
He seemed entirely unbothered even as the words were certainly provocative. The implication was good, more than good, but it wasn’t actually the confirmation the Corinthian needed. “Like on your back or…”
Dream shrugged. “On my back will be sufficient.”
Sufficient.
The Corinthian hated how the word settled like offence.
Dream raised a brow. “Does that bother you?”
“Just lay the fuck down.” He hissed.
“You are far too easily insulted.” Dream said as he approached.
“And you’re—"
The Corinthian didn’t get to finish.
Dream seemed to have grown tired of conversation.
He closed the last of the distance to shove him backwards onto the bed, forced the Corinthian to sit, to sprawl, leaning back on his elbows before he pushed himself upright. Dream snapped his fingers; now naked before him but already stalking forwards, no time to admire the fluid way Dream moved, only enough to get the barest impression of muscles flexing beneath ivory skin.
If it’d been up to the Corinthian he’d have had him go slowly.
He hadn’t even had time to react, to take it in, would have undressed Dream like the present he’d been teased with. A finely wrapped thing he could reveal layer by layer, peeling with his knife.
Shredding until he got to the bone.
Dream didn’t slow down—removed his glasses, unbuckled his belt—annoying detached as he reached for his cock, not even bothering to undress him all the way, icy hands settling on the Corinthian’s shoulders as he climbed onto his lap. There was no time to touch, to put his hands on slim hips, to slide them upwards, Dream already sinking down after giving him no more than a couple of cursory strokes.
The whole thing was offensively clinical.
It felt close, but not intimate, because although the Corinthian could count the eyelashes framing Dream’s eyes there was nothing but indifference in them. Yet it still felt incredible; a pressure that made him swear, a slow pulse of friction as Dream took him inch by inch, a deliciously firm grip on his cock that felt utterly divine. He gave way for him, opened up to invite him in, and the apathy in Dream’s expression didn’t change the fact that he didn’t stop until he’d taken it all.
The Corinthian swallowed.
“Usually I like a little more foreplay.”
Dream ignored him.
He approached this mechanically—a task to be completed, as repetitive as washing the dishes, as mundane as filing taxes—emotionless with his thighs spread wide and a cock buried deep inside him. Dream didn’t even seem to feel it, merely shifted as if testing the stability of his mount, launched straight into a brutal, ruthless pace, an effortless rise and fall. The roll of those hips was smooth, steady, Dream’s expression almost bored.
No—not almost.
He absolutely was.
Meanwhile the Corinthian found he couldn’t speak, overwhelmed in an instant by the sheer everything of it, hands clenched helplessly in the sheets. An abundance of sensory input hammering his nerves and shaking him apart. Dream wasn’t even hard, remained soft between their bodies, and while it was incredibly insulting to be used as if he wasn’t even there—
Dream was still riding his cock like he was getting paid for it.
The Corinthian still wanted to get him to slow down, to relax into it, but there was nothing he could do to get the upper hand, nothing he could do but sit on the edge of his kings bed and moan.
It wasn’t fair.
This was embarrassing. It was humiliating, infuriating to be so overcome when Dream was so very calm, to moan so desperately while he was silent, blindsided by being put back in check before he’d made a single move. It wasn’t enough, he wanted to remember this, to savour it, wanted to touch but couldn’t even raise his hands. The Corinthian was overwhelmed, trembling, adrift like he was falling down the side of a mountain, unable to gain purchase—
It felt like drowning.
And Dream—beautiful terrible Dream—just kept riding him with that same expression of bored indifference.
His pale eyes were clear, relaxed and languid despite the still sickly glow. Dream didn’t seem to be all that concerned with his own pleasure, cock still soft, and maybe he was just being spiteful. This was for power, after all; Dream had dropped his flirtatious guise the moment he’d shoved the Corinthian backwards onto the bed, discarding the lure now he’d gotten the bite. Maybe he was mocking the Corinthian’s desire, taking advantage of it, teasing it out into the open just to manipulate him into agreeing to this, because for all Dream had taunted the Corinthian’s sexual prowess—
He didn’t actually seem all that interested in testing it.
Maybe Dream hadn’t even considered actually doing this for pleasure.
Hadn’t thought that he could.
Maybe—
Another roll of Dream’s hips and he was lost; thoughts scattered, no sound but his own gasping breaths, the lewd slap of skin, the desperate moans drawn from his panting mouth. Oh the Corinthian was close—seriously, already?—this brutal pace dragging him towards the edge with no care for calibrating the fall, for cushioning the landing.
It was too much.
The Corinthian couldn’t fight it, couldn’t—
He could, because something changed, that uncompromising rhythm abruptly slowed, stuttered. Dream’s eyes began to glow brighter, light spilling out of them as if he couldn’t help it.
As if he couldn’t hold it back.
The Corinthian had a front row seat complete with a close up; nearly blinded by it, the light no longer muted, no longer left to rust, flaring as if stretching to shake off the lethargy of a long slumber. This was more than the dark tapestry of the night sky, no coy flicker, the usual subtle scattering, because behind that glow Dream’s pale irises suddenly turned black. The Corinthian hated how his breath caught, how Dream could always find a way to become still more beautiful.
One day I’ll find the limit, he promised, one day I’ll—
Another roll of those hips, not so smooth now, jerky and followed by a sigh.
It was nothing much, quiet, soft, somehow everything because it was the first, followed by another, then another, and then suddenly Dream was gasping. He lost purchase, lost rhythm, slammed down hard onto the Corinthian’s cock and then gasped even louder. Dream shivered, a tremor in the press of his thighs, fingers now flexing on the Corinthian’s shoulders. His head tipped back, lips trembling—overwrought, nearly overcome, whatever he was getting must really be euphoric—the spell pushing Dream somewhere that made his back arch.
It was sudden, shocking, so good the Corinthian scarcely believed it was really happening.
And oh was it making Dream clench, grinding down and gripping the Corinthian’s cock still tighter, greedily squeezing with each new wave of power. He was hardening at last, cock pressed between their bodies, forced to it, eyes fluttering closed, and when they opened the Corinthian was suddenly staring into glassy eyes.
Brimming with tears.
They welled, glistening, clung to his eyelashes like beads of crystal, spilled over—just one at first, a tear trailing down his pale cheek in a slow meander—hesitant in unmarked territory. Another followed it, faster now, sliding down the trench the first had made, the groove it had begun to cut in stone. They fell from the other eye too, slipped unbidden down both cheeks, caught on his chin, gathered there, then dropped to his collarbone.
The Corinthian smiled; slow, delighted, predatory.
Dream shuddered, bit his lip, stilled abruptly as he was flooded with more power, eyes glowing even brighter, mouth falling open.
Turnabout, it seemed, was more than fair play.
This was more than a moment to catch his breath, something he could ruthlessly take advantage of, fingers already unclenching from the sheets. The Corinthian was finally able to touch, thumb brushing the skin under Dream’s eye, reverent as he wiped away a tear and sucked his finger into his mouth so he could taste it.
Dream’s skin was icy like a storm.
His tears tasted like a night in the desert alone.
“You’re crying.”
“Never mind that.” Dream didn’t seem embarrassed—unconcerned by needing to pause so he could gasp, lips parting—as if tears were inconsequential, as if he hadn’t even noticed. “The spell is working.”
“Hmm.”
He offered a tear to his right eye; the mouth there straining, tongue laving at the pad of the Corinthian's finger as the other ground its teeth, impatient for a turn. It sucked hard on his fingertip when it finally got its own taste, ravenous for every drop. This was divine, hallowed, because Dream was starlight made flesh and catching just one of those tears was like grappling a falling star. He couldn’t keep up though, couldn’t gather them fast enough, still more falling—
The Corinthian leant forwards and licked them from Dream’s cheeks.
First one, then the other, savouring as he bent his head to follow the trail of them down his neck. He sighed, lapped at the ones pooling in Dream’s collarbone, drinking from the cup of him at last without a care for poison.
“You taste delicious.”
“Of course I do.” Dream was dismissive even as tears still trailed down his cheeks, eyes black like the carapace of a beetle. “But this isn’t over yet, for it to be complete I need to come.”
The Corinthian was unwilling to let his advantage go so easily.
He had to be fast, wouldn’t risk Dream adjusting, gripped him by the hips and tightened his hold, because spell or no the Corinthian had never thought he could affect Dream like this. He never thought he could give him this, be something good like this—here was proof he could make a mark, could matter, could affect him in some way, because even if this was magic Dream needed something from him.
Something he couldn’t otherwise get.
The Corinthian smirked, elated, buoyant, urged onwards. “Oh yeah? You need to come?”
Dream had always been so far out of reach, so much so that before he’d touched him the Corinthian hadn’t been sure he’d really been flesh at all. Beneath his hands was the proof that he was, how in actuality he was somehow tendon and bone, could be smooth and so very soft. He leant forward again, licked more tears from Dream’s cheeks as he held him still, kept him in this odd limbo, this place where power shivered through him and yet made him so very vulnerable.
“I—”
“Shh.” One hand now dared to caress the silky skin of his thigh, a firm press of the Corinthian’s fingers into the muscle, chasing residual shivers. This was a test of his own patience too, of how long the Corinthian could suppress the urge to thrust into him, to take his pleasure just as he pleased. Though he was probably getting much more stimulation than Dream, pleasure sparking just from having him sat stretched around his cock. “In a minute sweetheart.”
Dream squirmed.
The hands on the Corinthian’s shoulders gripped tight as he tried to lift himself, to return to that pace that had so overwhelmed them both, but even this boost in power wasn’t enough to counter the difference in current physical strength.
It wasn’t even enough to challenge it.
The Corinthian had known enough of that already to know this wasn’t a gamble. Now he’d gotten hands on Dream it was as easy to hold him still as it had been to hold him down in the sand. It was easy to keep him here, so full, shifting impatiently in his lap, the Corinthian’s cock buried as deep within this supple body as it could get.
A claim from the inside.
He could keep him like this a while, gripping him tight, could—
“Corinthian.“
Dream’s glare hadn’t lost any of its power.
The Corinthian had definitely lost some of his obedience, some of his fear, because even if the look in Dream’s eyes still curdled the blood he was certain he wasn’t going to be destroyed in the middle of sex. This was still Dream’s victory, still his game, but just because the Corinthian hadn’t negotiated the deal didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with the terms. He could look without consequence, could appreciate him in anger, could fixate on these delicate bones, so finely wrought, the tensely set jaw, sharp and cold and criminally beautiful. Dream’s deep black eyes were narrowed, still glassy with tears—
His lips were pressed into a thin line that only made them pout.
It was all the better for the why, the reason Dream was so angry, the knowledge that it was because the Corinthian wasn’t giving him his cock.
Wasn’t letting him fuck himself on it.
The Corinthian’s question was idle, insolent. “Yes milord?”
Dream smirked.
The pushback didn’t seem to bother him, the disrespect, because all his creator did was open his mouth and say—
“Please?”
For a moment the Corinthian froze, unable to answer, unable to take what Dream had just said, stunned because it seemed his creator was always raising the stakes. He recovered just as his fingers clenched, digging into flesh that yielded, so supple, as giving as the lips he’d pressed a thumb into.
The Corinthian licked his lips. “Please what?”
“Please may I come?” Dream purred, now cupping his cheek, trailing fingers so delicately over his skin. “I need to come on your cock—I need you to let me.”
Oh it was back to honeyed seduction was it?
“Let you?”
Dream allowed him what he’d never thought he would—to get away with it, adjusted his wording, demurring to the demand in the Corinthian’s voice while he made one of his own.
“I need you to make me.”
How was he not embarrassed by this, humiliated?
It didn’t matter.
And maybe there was another reason Dream had suggested doing this.
Because hadn’t he wound the Corinthian up first, sidled close, teased and flirted? Maybe the taunt had been a little slip of the tongue, a little wondering maybe from his touch starved lord—
Perhaps Dream had seen something in those daydreams that he’d liked.
Make him? Oh he could more than do that; the Corinthian flipped them, got Dream on his back on the bed, pinned beneath him just as he’d been in the desert.
The Corinthian hadn’t been careful; this was a careless display of pale skin, strewn across the mattress, unnaturally thin but not frail, an unmistakable strength in this steel of muscle and bone. Dream's dark hair was glossy, wild, soft like feathers and so very tempting to pull. The Corinthian followed the sprawl of one arm, tracing the line of it, up and up to where it rested above Dream's head, the fingers half curled against the sheets. Now there was something delicious in being fully clothed when Dream was not—even if he’d first been annoyed by the cursory treatment—a power differential he wanted to chase, to pin down.
He was tempted, then, an idling thought to show Dream exactly what the Corinthian had meant by foreplay, to punish him for its lack, to keep him here like this.
To go so very, very slow.
But the Corinthian had been teased long enough.
He got one arm under a leg, pushed back into Dream as he raised it up, took advantage of unnatural flexibility to stretch him out so he could get deep. Next he turned his head, smirked as he pressed a soft little kiss against his knee, before beginning in earnest. Dream's lips curved into a satisfied smile even as tear tracks glistened on his cheeks, his head thrown back, a pleased little smirk that said yes, finally. The Corinthian thought about robbing him of that smug arrogance, of shoving in with his cock this time instead of his fingers, but that would mean moving, stopping, and even the delicious image of those lips straining around him—would Dream choke?—wasn’t going to make him do that.
He still fucked him harder than he’d ever dared believe he could, allowing all that pent up rage to spill out—centuries of it, lifetimes—brutal as his hips snapped forward.
The Corinthian would match that pace his king had set if he couldn’t outdo it.
The slap of skin was oh so satisfying now, less a sign of defeat than evidence Dream was taking it from him hard, dragged, repositioned, folded inwards just so the Corinthian could force his cock inside, fucked out in his own bed, laying here taking it, forced to this, having already begged for it. The Corinthian held him down without even considering bruises, uncaring of his comfort, but Dream didn’t seem to mind how rough it got. He was glowing; the light outside the shattered ceiling, this light below, both of him and from him and so achingly beautiful. Dream relaxed as if relieved of some great burden, sighing softly as this weaker body was used, manhandled, absorbing force like he was made for this.
Or maybe it was the Corinthian who’d been made to give it to him.
“Say it again,” he growled. “Beg me for it again.”
“Please.”
Dream wielded the word like the weapon it absolutely wasn’t.
He murmured it like the threat it could never be in anyone else’s hands. Dream did it while gasping, while shuddering, completely at ease with showing his pleasure, with showing just how greedy he was for more. He looked up with glassy eyes—
“Please.”
Dream was still crying.
He’d never really stopped; tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, falling to the sheets, droplets catching on long lashes. They glowed now too, like holy water, anointed, and they should be scooped up, shouldn’t be wasted, but the Corinthian couldn’t pause to reach for them. The glow was brightening, a burst of light so full, so much—even for him, even the nightmare that he was bowed close to breaking—because looking at Dream, really looking, was a kind of self-inflicted torture.
And here, like this, touching him was worse.
This was skin crackling with power, this was standing on the surface of the sun, too much, not enough, never enough. A star being reborn within the black of his irises, a nebula, a solar event to shatter galaxies, and if Dream was getting this from him then the Corinthian couldn’t say he knew how because he certainly hadn’t been made with light in mind.
This was supposed to be a transfer, supposed to drain him.
Instead he’d never felt stronger.
It felt glorious, spine tinglingly good; pleasure pooling in his gut, a pressure that tugged and demanded.
Dream’s cock was still hard, aroused despite being utterly ignored, and it might just have been a result of the magic. He didn’t care, his creator might not have sought his own pleasure but the Corinthian would still find it for him, had been asked to make him feel it. It took a readjustment, a change in angle, but—
The Corinthian knew the moment he found what he was looking for.
Dream moaned.
He grinned.
Are you bored now, your majesty?
Thin fingers twisted in the sheets, winding tighter and tighter with each thrust, these sculptors hands that crushed as much as they created reduced to trembling desperation. No more mocking smiles from those petal pink lips—just look at the shape of them now, that perfect oh, parted like they’re giving benediction—no sound coming out except more of those delicious needy moans. The leg over his shoulder kept drawing him in, the heel of Dream's foot pressing hard against his back, keeping prey close now it had been caught. It would leave a bruise, the Corinthian knew, or cave it in, crack his constructed body like an egg.
Oh but he’s far gone, something in Dream giving in without giving up.
This body was now straining to contain what lurked beneath the skin, everything Dream was pulled close and kept here, more genuine an offer than that teasing saunter in the throne room. The Corinthian reached for Dream’s cock at last, wrapped fingers around it, stroked hard and fast, grinning at how it made him jerk.
Maybe it was the magic, the spell Dream was working, because it suddenly built to a crescendo, power peaking, pleasure peaking. It had its hooks in the miasma within, feeding it, giving to it, fingers trailing along a stream of starlight, a chunk of meat thrown to a creature starving in the dark. Dream let out one final gasp, one last moan, whatever sounds the Corinthian also made lost under a sudden buzzing in his ears—
And then he went dizzy with exhaustion.
It was like nothing the Corinthian had ever felt; suddenly hollowed out, gasping for air he’d never needed as he fell to the side, collapsing on the bed as if sucked dry.
Left to burn in the desert sun.
The Corinthian was a bone picked clean of flesh. It hurt. He shuddered but this time it wasn’t with pleasure, felt almost cold, bereft, lost, unmade. There was no time for embarrassment at the desperate way he clutched at the sheets, face pressed into them, because it was all he could do just to lay there and not fall apart.
All he could do just to quake there for an unknowable amount of time.
It could have been a moment, could have been an hour, a day, a century, but soon the Corinthian became aware of a low and soothing hum, of fingers threading through his hair, gently scraping across his scalp. He couldn’t help but lean into it because it felt like coming home, greedily accepting the comfort, would have it all, would take and take and take. There wasn’t energy to rage against it, this feeling of belonging, and even later he knew he wouldn’t really regret this, already considering the price well paid.
“I suspected it might be this hard on you,” Dream said softly, oddly regretful, as if truly meaning the warning he hadn’t given. “I will not need to do that again.”
All the Corinthian could do was nod.
He hadn’t even thought to ask if it would hurt.
“You did well.” Dream continued, tone fond even as he remained an icy weight at the Corinthian’s side. “I am pleased.”
Of course.
His creator had said he’d need to be good from now on.
That was the real warning; heeded too late, understood at a time where it was impossible to do anything about it, because it was the confidence of future punishment. It was the certainty that the Corinthian would break the rules. It was forcing him to choose more humiliating capitulations or risk facing a wrath he wasn’t sure he still knew the shape of. Maybe he’d already fucked up by taunting him, making him beg, but the Corinthian supposed he’d find that out after they located the ruby. He didn’t really think Dream would ever be content with a slap on the wrist—not after the pardon he’d given, the punishment he’d been denied—unsure if breaking even the smallest of rules would result in his destruction.
It was a choice that mocked his desire for agency.
Well, the Corinthian thought wryly as he panted against the mattress, this certainly raised the stakes for the next time he tried to leave.
He couldn’t help but think of all the chances he’d had already—all the opportunities there had been to run—how he hadn’t taken any of them. It was more than worth it though, risk enough for the reward of being able to fuck Dream while he cried. He smiled, closed his eyes, languid as the minutes passed, opened them once more to find that cool hand still stroking through his hair, gentle, idling, as if Dream had given him time to recover.
A show of patience.
Or maybe not. Maybe Dream wasn’t patient at all, because patience required uncertainty. A fisherman not knowing if his lure would get a bite.
Dream wasn’t patient. He was just certain.
So certain.
“Now,” Dream said primly as he gripped the Corinthian by the chin, tilted his head up. “I believe you owe me something.”
This was what he’d forgotten; the thing the Corinthian had ignored when he’d found him laying in the sand, before Dream had opened his eyes, before he’d seen what was within them, the monster looming in the dark. He saw it now, too close, reaching out to swallow him whole. The Corinthian couldn’t pull away, couldn’t do anything but look up into those terrible eyes—beloved, the word was beloved—
Dream of the Endless smirked down at him.
“Where is my ruby?”