Chapter Text
Reforming was painful.
It was flesh regenerating onto gleaming bone, healing molecule by molecule, the agony of feeling every single moment of it. The pain blinded him, trapped with nowhere to go, because the Corinthian couldn’t even scream until he’d regained his voice. The amulet had packed an unexpected punch; torn him apart, damaged him enough that he’d been sent back to the Dreaming, the reset an uncomfortable reminder of all he’d tried to escape. There was a sense of displacement, then of rightness, an immediate whiplash just from being here, returned to this place he’d left behind. A landscape of sand greeted him when he opened his eyes, recognisable as just beyond the walls of the Dreaming, a desert that stretched further than the Corinthian could see.
In it he found something utterly surprising.
Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams himself, lay on the ground barely ten feet away.
Oh fuck.
The very sight of him stopped the Corinthian cold; this was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid, what he feared, what he’d gone to that stupid mortal to try and prevent. He’d wanted to stay out of it while she drew the kings ire. This was—
The king wasn’t moving.
The Corinthian frowned, couldn’t help but look closer, curious even as every instinct screamed at him to run. There was no wind in this place; silence the hush of a held breath, like the centre of a storm, and Dream lay at its heart as he always did. He was on his side, sprawled in the sand, loose limbed; laying there like a felled god, a divine creature slain on the battlefield, glorious even just as bones.
A temptation even while wounded.
The Corinthian knew that was in part the reason he’d stayed away.
And yet here he was, being drawn closer, being urged forwards by something he couldn’t name. It took no time at all to close the distance.
There was no sign of movement, Dream seemed unaware of what approached, lay slack and pliant as the Corinthian knelt next to him in the sand. He rolled Dream onto his back, cautious even as he went easily, unsure of what to make of the prize he’d found. Dream was so very still, eyes closed, limp beneath his hands.
Defenceless.
There was sand in Dream’s hair, a smudge of it across one fine cheekbone.
He was tempted to brush it away.
He shouldn’t, the Corinthian should go, should take advantage of this incredible stroke of luck and leave before Dream woke up.
And yet—
He was hesitating, fascinated at how easy it had been to move him, to touch even a little. Now fear only heightened the experience, the rush of something forbidden adding depth of flavour, because there would never be something like this again. Could he really pass this opportunity up? The Corinthian wanted to enjoy it.
Surely he could have just a little more, just a little taste?
The Corinthian gave into temptation, fell upon it, gentle as he brushed sand off the sharp line of Dream’s jaw. The skin was smooth, cold like ice, tantalisingly real beneath his fingertips. Dream didn’t stir; he grew bolder, reached for his hair, curious, sank his fingers in and groped for a fistful, the softness of it addictive. He spent a moment there, admiring, running his fingers through it, marvelling and trembling at how it felt to touch as he pleased. Then the Corinthian dared to be even bolder; swung a leg over Dream’s body, settled on top of him, caged him in with the press of his thighs either side of slim hips.
He traced the line of Dream’s jaw, paused by his lips, then traced them too, forefinger pressing lightly just to feel if they would give. The flesh was plush, as if they really were filled with blood, as if deep within Dream was a heart that beat.
What would it feel like to slip inside, he wondered?
There wasn’t enough time to find out, Dream began to stir with a sudden frown, eyes still closed, and the Corinthian found that his expression of disorientated confusion made this all the more worth it. He was so weak. The Corinthian had never seen him like this, so drained of power, so open to attack he’d made himself an invitation that begged to be hurt.
Oh my lord, you don’t even know where you are.
Dream wouldn’t know whose finger was on his lips, perhaps he wasn’t yet aware enough to even feel them, and so when he parted them on his next breath, subtle, a begging space, it was a dangerous invitation.
It was an irresistible temptation.
The Corinthian slipped two fingers into his mouth, smirked as Dream jerked back even as he didn’t have far to go, the back of his head meeting sand and going no further. The resistance only made him want more—it was demeaning, wasn’t it, the fingers he’d shoved in between plush lips, the obscene way he had them stretched an insult. It landed now Dream was awake, had needed to be acknowledged to truly pay off, felt even more like blasphemy now he was aware enough to feel it. Dream’s mouth was cold, wet, forced to open wide when he slid his fingers towards the back of his throat, going deep just because he could. Going—
The Corinthian drew his fingers back before Dream went to bite.
He’d seen the surprise flare, the eyes snapping open. The confusion disappeared instantly, turned to cold anger, temper rapidly worsening as he took in their current position.
Dream looked up.
The Corinthian locked eyes with his creator for the first time in one hundred years.
Oh.
Oh he was still starlight wasn’t he?
Dream tried to sit up, one of the Corinthian’s hands instinctively moving to stop him, and he didn’t know who was more surprised when he actually succeeded in holding Dream down.
Surprise quickly faded to gleeful elation.
Well.
For him anyway.
Dream grew even more enraged.
Starlight wouldn’t help him here; the Corinthian had him pinned, leant his body weight on the hand on his chest, felt Dream shudder out a suddenly strained breath. He felt the ribs creak, protesting at being treated so roughly, chuckled as slim hands rose to pull his hand away. Dream used both, forced to it, wrapped them around his wrist and tried to yank. Oh those dainty fingers had very little purpose here, those slim wrists begging to be bruised, this lithe body made to be forced down just like this. Dream had to stay splayed out below him, helpless, delicate, held down by the bulk of someone so much bigger.
It was more than worth it.
So this was what he was like without his ruby, without the rest of his tools, a pliant slim little slip of a thing. The king hadn’t yet spoken, hadn’t protested, hadn’t ordered, hadn’t begged him to stop and oh if he could force a bit of that—
Dream thrashed under him, gritted his teeth as he fought, still trying adamantly to shove him off.
It didn’t matter. For once the Corinthian was stronger, so much stronger, grinning as he pinned Dream’s wrists to soft, yielding sand. They sunk half an inch, gave way to pressure, the fine particles shifting to scatter across gleaming skin. Holding them still was nothing like watching from afar, was visceral, the fulfilment of centuries spent yearning for just one touch. The rush of it was like nothing else, an effortlessly addictive feeling, because forcing Dream down like this had victory lighting him up from the inside out.
He wanted more.
“Settle down sweetheart,” the Corinthian grinned, cold and cruel, thumb stroking back and forth across the jutting bone of a wrist. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Dream stilled.
Then he smiled, feral like a promise.
It wasn’t a warning, it was far far too late for a warning, was the herald accompanying the end of days, the announcement of a storm that was already here.
The glow of those eyes should have been enough; the Corinthian should have known better, shouldn’t have been so distracted, should have run when he had the chance. Now he was caught in a vice, wheezing like a hand had plunged into his chest, everything that made him what he was suddenly rendered alien. This was a betrayal of self. It didn’t belong to him, nothing did, because this power wasn’t even loaned it was just displaced—kept elsewhere, stored for safe keeping. The Corinthian didn’t even have time to flinch before he started to crumble into sand, the hands holding Dream down disintegrating, all that was left to him the recognition of his mistake—
The Corinthian had forgotten where they were.
There was a message in the sea of sand around them, this endless infinite space, because it could just as easily be dust from the stars scattered in Dream’s eyes. Of course there was no wind—why would there be?—this place was one of unsettling stillness, the moment before an act of creation.
Or destruction.
Fuck.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This wasn’t—
The Corinthian was desperate when he blurted out the words; scrambling with panic, blinded by the need to survive at any cost, the same instinct that made an animal gnaw off its own arm to escape a trap. “I know who has your ruby.”
It was the only thing that might save him.
Dream stopped.
And just like that identity was his again; power rushed back, hit the Corinthian like a drug, shuddered its way back inside as if it had never rejected him. He lost a second of time, came back to find himself still whole, still pinning slim wrists, still leaning on top of Dream. It was a false stalemate. A false image of unequal power. The lovely scenario of before nothing more than a mirage—the fever dream of one lost in a desert without water, an amusing spectacle for a bored god—because Dream wasn’t in any danger at all.
He'd never been.
“I will not need you to help me find it.”
The statement was turned up like a question; an invitation, a king sat expectant on his throne, an audience granted but judgement not yet reached. This was opening peace talks when the war was already won—a power play, an insult, the signing of a treaty one side didn’t even need—because Dream was merely allowing himself to be bargained with. It was humiliation, proof of unequal stakes, a move that revealed who had really been in check all this time. Dream wanted to see what hand the Corinthian thought he had to play this game, to bet with, wanted him to make an offer in exchange for his life.
Was daring him to make one worthy of him.
You want to play? Dream’s smile seemed to say. Let’s play.
“Maybe you don’t. It’ll take time though. Time you can save.” The Corinthian said quickly, smoothly persuasive, the same purr of silk that had made him so irresistible in the mortal world. “Time others could use to get closer to it.”
Now Dream was frowning. “What others?“
It was a point to him, scored well enough that it might make the difference, and so the Corinthian grinned sharply. “Oh no my lord, that’ll need to be part of the deal.”
He cautiously let go of one wrist, left it laying in indented sand, unsure of what to make of the fact that it stayed there. The Corinthian knew he shouldn’t push his luck, found himself testing it anyway, moving the collar of Dream’s dark coat aside so he could brush his fingers across the hollow of his throat. On a human the skin here would be delicate, a vulnerability to be protected, but even if he could trace the steady thrumming of Dream’s pulse the Corinthian knew there was no weakness here. Even the edge of a collarbone, peeking out from a thin black shirt, tantalisingly delicate, was a poisoned chalice he could touch but never drink from.
It might be possible to break it; maybe the Corinthian could even wrap a hand around Dream’s throat, leave bruises if he squeezed, draw a knife, but the only thing that would save him from retaliation was if he could manage to run.
And it was already too late for that.
The realisation gave him his answer. This touch was allowed because it meant nothing. Dream lay so pliant beneath him out of indulgence, knowing that at any moment he could put him back in check, could wipe the board without even having to twitch a single one of his pretty slender fingers.
“Very well.” Dream replied, surprising him with the ease of his agreement, offering a reprieve for his life as easily as he could take it. “I’m sure you have terms?”
“A pardon.” The Corinthian said, nervous as he licked his lips, knowing Dream could very easily judge this a price too high for indulgence. “You won’t destroy me, won’t do a thing to punish me. Now or after you find your ruby. You’ll forgive everything up till now.”
A raised brow.
Dream was silent as he considered this demand.
The Corinthian tried not to fidget, tried not to show impatience, weakness, even as his life hung on the whims of the creator he had done such a good job at pissing off. It didn’t entirely work, his hand was still pressed against a sharp collarbone, the fingers curled towards it, accidental, but the slow circling motion of his finger was absolutely deliberate.
It was still obvious how he trembled.
“So frightened, my nightmare; how you’re shaking like a lamb, and here I thought you were a wolf among the sheep.” Dream smiled up at him, tone conversational even as malice made itself a home in his eyes. “Do you remember when I found you in the Waking World? How sweetly you begged for your life, how slowly you sank to your knees before me, how well you stayed there?”
Of course.
His creator wanted him to beg.
The Corinthian’s instinct was to tell him to go fuck himself, to refuse, to break at least one of Dream’s stupid fucking wrists before he was destroyed. It fought with the part of him that was tripping over itself to grovel, a please struggling to force its way out of his throat. He didn’t know which way he’d fall, at war with himself even as he went to speak.
“Milord—”
The Corinthian had never wanted to address him like that again, soft and deferent, had barely opened his mouth before—
“A blank slate?” Dream murmured as if he hadn’t spoken, seemed amused by the prospect of the request. “Oh my nightmare, you’re going to have to be so very good from now on.”
It made even the relief of his agreement sting.
There was something humiliating about not even being allowed to beg, about being dismissed just as he considered making an attempt of it, just as the Corinthian realised how much of his pride he was willing to sacrifice. Maybe this was a little bit of payback for having him flat on his back. Maybe Dream was having fun with this, haughty fucker that he was, enjoying forcing him to grovel, humiliating him while deeming his submission unworthy of even being heard.
The Corinthian swallowed down his anger. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” Dream’s tone was just the wrong side of teasing, mockingly indulgent, but his eyes were deadly cold. There was a significant pause. “In exchange for my ruby.”
“In exchange for your ruby.” The Corinthian agreed, relief so very sharp as it settled alongside humiliation, hating how afraid he’d been. Hating how afraid he still was, how his heart stuttered when Dream continued—
“And any other relevant information.”
“Who decides if it’s relevant?”
Dream smirked. “I do.”
“Hmm.” The Corinthian forced himself to sound thoughtful. He suppressed the twinge of fear at the gamble, at hesitating, fear making him want to agree instantly, because if this was negotiating and not begging then he’d claw back some of his dignity. “Might need some time to consider it.”
“Don’t think too long.” Dream said, falsely mild, the nightmarish thing he really was leering in the glow of his eyes. “I am not one to be kept waiting.”
He couldn’t afford another pause, even to keep his pride. “Then I accept your terms. Do you accept mine?”
“Yes.”
The Corinthian knew he’d been let off lightly.
This wasn’t even a slap on the wrist, wasn’t even a punishment. He knew Dream had let it be easy, been languid as he’d negotiated, almost passive despite his taunting demeanour. There was more Dream could have asked for, more he could have drawn out, more he could have done to humiliate him. Dream could have let him beg, could have wanted him on his knees, could have asked him to kiss his feet and promise never to disobey him again.
But he hadn’t.
And the Corinthian didn’t know why.
He let Dream stand up, wary; unsure of the trick, uneasy at the thought of telling him anything at all, of giving up the one piece of protection he still had. By contrast, Dream was nonchalant, rose with his usual preternatural grace, infuriatingly casual as he brushed sand from his clothes. A hand rose to slide through wild locks of dark hair, ruffled the strands to dislodge more sand, the coat falling open to reveal the stars glimmering inside.
The Corinthian knew the shape of want. He played with it, tasted it, manipulated it, but the thing curling hot and hungry in his belly couldn’t be controlled. Every mouth ached, yearned, and the anger that rose up in response was more a compliment than anything else.
It didn’t cancel it out.
Dream caught him looking, slipped his hands into his pockets, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he stared right back. Despite their agreement he didn’t ask about the ruby, didn’t demand the information as immediately as he’d implied he wanted it.
“What—"
The Corinthian was interrupted by a sudden noise. He heard a grating sound, unmistakable as anything but stone on stone, and turned to see that the doors to the Dreaming were opening. He watched as Lucienne stepped through, already beginning to stride towards them, expression joyous when she spotted her king.
Souring when she saw him.
The librarian spared him less than half a glance—sharp with disapproval, heavy with judgement—before her attention turned back to Dream. The smile she gave him was wide, filled with affection, a sheen of tears glimmering in her eyes as she seemed to drink in the sight of him.
“My lord! You’ve returned home.” Lucienne whispered, hushed and reverent, grasping one slender hand in both of hers.
The Corinthian found the display rather sickening.
Dream’s smile was soft, the silver glow of his eyes a gentle match. “I am pleased to have returned.”
“And you as well?” Lucienne deigned to acknowledge the Corinthian, not even waiting for an answer before she was once again focused on Dream. She smiled again, still cradling his hand so gently in her own. “This is good. More will return now.”
There was a change in the air, a sudden uncompromising pressure, of—
“More?” Dream enquired, dangerously quiet.
Oh but this was good.
The Corinthian could almost taste the beginnings of pain.
It might even help make up for the humiliating capitulation he’d just been forced to make. The Corinthian listened as Lucienne explained, watched avidly, smile growing wider with every passing moment. The sense of a nightmare meant he could feel one as it brewed, and even if his creator had never been affected by the Corinthian’s powers sometimes all that was needed was instinct.
It served him well here.
Dream didn’t disappoint—even at his most brutal, his most cruel, he’d never been disappointing—didn’t even seem concerned with hiding the devastation on his face as they entered the Dreaming. And didn’t the sight of it seem to ache, gouging a wound, the sheer depth of emotion as he looked at the crumbled remnants of his realm deliciously unguarded. Dream’s eyes were glassy with tears, long lashes wet with them, and though they were still unshed the Corinthian longed to see them fall. Maybe he could have slipped away while Dream was obviously distracted, but the sight was so arresting he couldn’t help himself, the need to see too strong.
It was so intimate.
The intensity of the Dreaming’s connection to Dream was laid bare; a place shattered without him, a land that reflected him more than the Corinthian had ever realised, because walking through the ruins of this place was like walking through the ruins of Dream’s soul. This was more than the weather reflecting his moods. This was something the Corinthian could reach, could very well touch, pain that he could feed on.
This was what happened when Dream was trapped for a hundred years.
To be honest the extent of the destruction surprised even him; the realm deserted, eerie because it had never been empty, the palace a still collapsing ruin. The throne room was just as bad, stonework half destroyed, shards of shattered glass littering the scuffed floor. Dream stopped at the steps leading up to his throne, seemed disinclined to climb them, content to sit there instead. He picked up one of the pieces of glass, smoothed his thumb across the edge, and though it didn’t cut him it almost didn’t matter.
This had already ripped Dream open.
It should have been embarrassing, to be seen like this, but Dream seemed entirely oblivious to the fact he was being observed. Unaffected. The Corinthian felt unsettled without knowing why, unsure why he was the one who felt like he should turn away. This felt as if he’d committed some form of sin, some form of indecency, a prickling awkwardness he didn’t understand. The Corinthian felt like he was the one exposed instead, a nerve left to shudder in open air, something about Dream’s bold emotion stripping him to bone.
Lucienne watched silently, just as the Corinthian did, because both of them seemed completely stumped on what to say. They ended up accidentally meeting each other’s eyes.
She glared at him.
“Going to mope all day?” The Corinthian said finally, settling on provocation because there was no chance he’d ever even consider comfort.
Lucienne’s expression turned even more murderous.
“You need rest milord.” The librarian said, turning away and acting as if the Corinthian hadn’t spoken at all.
Dream looked up, shook his head. “Rest will not invigorate me. I must find my tools.”
“Are you sure you—”
“I have an idea of how to regain some fraction of my power.” Dream interrupted quietly, somehow managing not to seem rude, that low tone too resonant, too pleasing to ever grate on the ear. “It will be enough until I locate the ruby.”
Lucienne nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
“The Corinthian will provide what I need.” Dream continued, which was a surprise to him because he was quite sure he hadn’t agreed to that. “Will you check in on Cain and Abel?”
The Corinthian could tell Lucienne didn’t want to leave Dream alone with him.
As distasteful as it was, he almost found himself agreeing with her, a sudden flash of fear clawing its way up his throat. There was only one thing he was aware of that would help Dream regain power. Was he already changing the deal? It wasn’t like Dream to go back on his word. Was this the trick? Was this the reason he’d been let off easy, the lull a cruel joke to punish him? The Corinthian prepared to run.
Or, more likely, to try to run.
It would be humiliating—though perhaps not as much as dropping to his knees and begging for his life—and the Corinthian instead found himself considering throwing caution to the wind and going for the throat. It was further treason, the ultimate act of it, an attack on his creator something he’d never be able to come back from.
Lucienne nodded; the silence had dragged, but hesitation hadn’t turned into refusal. “Yes, sir.”
The Corinthian readied himself, a hand already resting on the hilt of a knife, turned to Dream once she was gone. “We had a deal.”
“And I mean to keep it.” Dream raised a brow, setting the shard of glass down delicately, taking in the Corinthian’s tense stance with amusement. He didn’t even attempt to rise from his position on the stairs. “I am not planning on destroying you. There is no need to be so distrustful.”
The Corinthian frowned.
“You said—”
“I know what I said.” Dream tilted his head as if intrigued by the shape of his fear. “There is an alternative, foolish little thing. We will need to have intercourse.”
Wait a moment.
That was—
“What?”
The Corinthian wasn’t proud of the shock in his tone.
He grew even less so when Dream fixed him with a look of extreme exasperation, as if personally offended by his surprise. “I need power, my nightmare, and this is the only safe way to get it.”
The Corinthian was still gaping at him.
Dream frowned. “Come now, we must attend to this quickly, I have tools to locate.”
“But—“
“What?” His frown now slid towards a glare. It was impatient, almost sullen, displeased at being delayed by questions. “Would you rather I destroy you after all? That, as you so dutifully reminded me, would break our deal.”
“You want to have sex with me?”
“You have had sex before?” Dream was deadly serious, ignoring the Corinthian’s sceptical tone, eyes glittering cruelly as he looked him up and down. “I’ve heard more than enough daydreams about your prowess as a lover, have I been misled?”
“No.” The Corinthian said, readjusting, calculating what he could do with an offer like this, a giddy delight building now the surprise was gone. “You haven’t.”
It didn’t seem real.
He’d just been trying to stay alive and now he’s getting this?
After what he’d tried to steal—the bold touches when he’d had Dream on the ground, so very forbidden—now to be offered more? The Corinthian couldn’t say it was a bad deal even as he was still surprised he’d even managed to negotiate it. He wondered if, in fact, he had; thought of the way he’d been allowed to hold him still, watch him thrash, when all the while Dream could have stopped him at any moment. The Corinthian wondered if there was any advantage to be had here at all, if there was a way to twist this to gain the upper hand, or if this was just another of his creators predetermined games.
If this wasn’t just Dream’s victory.
The Corinthian reminded himself that his king had just admitted that he needed him, needed the boost, needed it badly enough to invite a rebellious nightmare into his bed. There was no ruby around Dream’s neck, no jewel of power sitting pretty in the hollow of his throat, no helm, no pouch of sand, but still Dream smirked as if this wasn’t his weakness.
Still his eyes glittered as if he’d not lost even a drop of power.
“Then let us proceed.”