Chapter Text
Dream of the Endless returns from a visit to the Waking World.
The Corinthian greets him by kissing his hand.
It’s far less intimate than it sounds; always ritual, the fun taken out of it, a protocol the Corinthian hasn’t yet been able to corrupt, tongue so close to bare skin and yet he still doesn’t know how Dream tastes. There’s something especially irritating about that today. Dream has redressed upon his return to the Dreaming; a black silk robe that plunges open to his navel, the ruby lying flat on his pale chest, its gold chain glittering around his throat.
Honestly it’s not even something he hasn’t seen before. And if being unable to taste him is infuriating it’s even worse that Dream is forever revealing skin the Corinthian isn’t even allowed to touch.
So perhaps he gets a little reckless when he says—
“Is this all your masterpiece gets?”
It’s far more insolent then even the Corinthian is usually, a tone that takes real effort to reach, easier to say like this, leaning down to kiss Dream’s hand. It softens what otherwise holds no reverence, what holds hunger instead. He could pass it off just as that softened thing, the Corinthian brushing lips across his creator’s knuckles to drown out the tease, but he’s rising in time with the crooning final word. It’s a tone made possible by a smirk; in shaping his mouth to this the Corinthian can only smile sharply as his lips leave pale skin, left poised to a taunt that persuades him to dare question Dream again.
It's not like his creator is doing anything to dissuade him.
It's not like he’s being stopped. And Dream should really know by now that the Corinthian is far too dangerous a nightmare to heed a warning before it’s spoken.
Now he chases the thrill in being so pointed in critique. “Is this all the touch I am allowed?”
The shape of the words seem different now the Corinthian has said them, he listens to how they ring, how desire sounds out loud. How insubordination does. That’s difficult to estimate, especially around Dream, the only place where temptation so effortlessly outweighs calculation. The Corinthian is always far too eager to push even harder than inclined to adjust his tone. He’s always tempted to goad Dream even more, to prod at the sleeping dragon and step gleefully into the resulting fire.
And as soon as he says the last syllable Corinthian thinks he’s finally gone too far.
But Dream’s expression reveals nothing.
There is nothing there for his teeth to bite, all smooth pale skin, no frown wrinkling his brow to a pattern the Corinthian could trace. There is a throat though; pale, bare past its hollow, a long line of exposed skin, glowing softly as it always does in Dream’s own realm. The Corinthian catches himself glancing at it, doesn’t bother correcting his focus, imagines how the skin might feel when it breaks under his teeth.
Imagines how Dream’s blood might taste when it fills his mouth.
“You are a greedy little thing,” Dream’s tone holds no cues, comes soft and curious, freshly laid snow over a trap you won’t see coming until you step forwards and feel the crunch. “Shall we test what greed tempers to when it’s rewarded for obedience?”
The Corinthian’s gaze returns to his creator’s face.
He doesn’t hide his grin. “I could play a game.”
“Ask me then.” Dream's dark eyes watch him, a tease of glittering stars, a mouth of it, no need to close around him because the Corinthian is always standing in their light. How might they taste, dipped in Dream’s blood, how might they—
Dream’s lips curve into a smile.
“Ask and you may touch where I permit.”