Archive of Our Own

On the first day, there was darkness.

Though, it wasn’t just dark. It was absent of light, of love, of all things good and beautiful. There was nothing but a swirling, murky haze of endless dusk and despair, a taunting coalescence of dust that reigned the vast emptiness.  Warmth had not yet been introduced to this plane of existence, leaving only a numbing frost that encapsulated all in a wintry grasp. Not that this could be acknowledged; whatever coexisted here had never felt the pleasure of the warmth, felt the kiss of the sun up against feverish planes of skin, nor the touch of another being. So, they didn’t mourn. They just stayed, curled in the infinite darkness, waiting.

The second day was when he was born into existence. 

Being ripped from the emptiness hadn’t been painful, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he could identify what pain was in that moment. He knew nothing, he had yet to experience what being truly was, what light and love and beauty had to offer. So, as the darkness seeped away, the tendrils of smoking gloom retreating from his shrivelled frame, still shaking and curling around itself, he was exposed to something he had never even believed in before. Light illuminated all that was visible, casting a dim, yet divine brightness over him, spilling onto the ground around him as if the heavens were opening above him. Though he couldn't feel the light itself, just the sight of it alone made his chest restrict with a sensation that he couldn’t place. That’s when he was faced with yet another feeling, this just as pleasant as the last.

It was warm. Not burning, the heat just right to seep into his bones, penetrating his muscles and his skin, ceasing his trembling limbs and racing heart, allowing a decompression of sorts. It felt as though all the tension had seeped out of his body, as though the streams of light were hands, flesh fluttering over the canvas of his skin, fingers caressing every inch of his body to pull the tautness and numbness from him. His heart thumped behind his ribcage, both new additions to his form that he wasn’t entirely used to, eliciting a twisting, angelic pleasure that reached every part of him. Happiness. 

Slowly, he was able to move himself, straining muscles to stretch his limbs out, watching in fascination as his hands curled and uncurled, digits extending over the ground. His legs resisted somewhat as he pushed himself upwards, a burning prickling in his tendons due to disuse, though it didn’t stop him. If anything, it encouraged him. He had the strongest desire to just be, to exist and experience everything that came with it, even if that involved pain. 

In hindsight, he knew that was a foolish outlook. 

From the position he was in, knees flush against the hard ground, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, he allowed his neck to crane upwards. He couldn’t see much; his vision was blurred somewhat, as if there was something obstructing his eyes, and even then he had to squint against the light that poured over his face. Though, as he adjusted to the blinding brightness, various objects and vivid, luring shapes took form around him. 

He appeared to be in some sort of a room, though it was larger than that; the structure that surrounded him was of grandeur and magnificence, a stretching formation of carved stone and towering pillars and stained glass. His heart stammered and his hands gripped at tiles below him, probing the smooth, grey planes with soft fingertips. It felt surreal. Tilting his head further, he watched as the columns of stone seemed to dissolve into an open roof, revealing a blanket of frolicking hues and coruscating lights that extended out towards the corners of the space. Particles seemed to dance effortlessly between the flickering pinpricks of light, a weaving, bobbing mass of dust across the vivid expanse. 

A smile split his features as he observed it; this was beauty. This is what he’d been missing in the darkness, in that eternal stretch, devoid of light and warmth, of love and touch. He thought at that moment that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed, most probably the most beautiful thing he ever would. Every fibre of being seemed to burn at the sight, his fingertips vibrating and alight against the cool tiles, his cheeks scorching from the unfamiliar stretch of his lips. 

“Welcome, my Nightmare.”

There came a voice from behind him, so close he could feel the disturbance in the air, a cool sensation brushing against his bare back. He shivered. The noise was even and deep, a flow of syllables that seemed entirely too effortless, entirely too smooth. It rested in the air around him, incongruent to the room; where the space was warm and finite, the voice was cooling and endless, almost like the darkness he was so accustomed to, but he didn’t mind. Infact, he thought the lilting drawl of the words were pleasant in a way. Calming, even.

Then, it came again, “Turn, face me.”

He did just that. And if he thought that he had known beauty, he was wrong. 

The figure stood only a few paces behind him, his posture rigid and towering, dark and divine. Wide gaze wandered up the man’s frame, drinking in the inky fabric that hung off of his body, draped loosely off of his torso. Though, it managed to cling to all the right places, creating a slender silhouette that was just as perfect as it was intimidating. The robe’s sleeves concealed his hands, clasped at his front, unmoving, interlocked digits barely visible under the material. His gaze climbed eagerly over his form, only ceasing movement when he reached the figure’s face. 

It was an impeccable contrast against the dusky robes; pale skin almost voluminous against the surroundings, as though it were emitting its own blinding illumination. The soft-toned canvas was unblemished, harbouring no flaws spare the dusting of rose on the figure’s cheeks. His features shared the same untarnished finish- his lips full and tinted, nose strong and prominent, complimenting his sharp jaw. Hair spiked away from his head, creating a soft halo of black to frame his face, a few unruly locks falling over his forehead and away from his eyes.

Oh God, his eyes. Though heavy lidded and concealed, he could make out a flashing of vivid hues swirling behind thick lashes. They were blue and whirling and glinting with something that he couldn't quite place and he couldn’t breathe. Not with that piercing gaze holding his own, an unwavering stream of intimacy like nothing he had known, as though he was trying to communicate something incomprehensible and astounding.
He pulled himself forward weekly towards the figure, ignoring the way the tiles dug bitterly into the exposed flesh of his knees and palms. He extended a hand towards the figure’s robe to grasp it, the material sliding like the most divine silk against his fingertips. No, this robe wasn’t divine. The being was divine. Everything about the tall, commanding figure drew him in, his heart constricting and his breath hitching, a sense of pure devotion overcoming him. It only felt suitable to grovel at his feet, clinging onto him with shaking hands, thanking him for something. He was unsure of what. 

“Oh, Nightmare,” The figure spoke up again, the rumble of his voice sending shockwaves through the hand on his robe, “Oh, my Nightmare. You’re okay. You’re alive.”

He was unsureturned what ‘al ive’ even entailed. These sensations, these emotions were overwhelming in the best possible way, the pain and the pleasure and the love and he needed more. He wanted more of all of it; he wanted to feel the burning of the figure’s eyes on his for eternity, to bathe in the beauty of the being in front of him. If he had a concept of greed, then that would've defined how his entire body was alight and feverish, his fingers gripping tighter onto the fabric.

He tested his own voice then, “Alive?” It was croaky, deep and rumbling. It wasn’t as smooth as the other’s, nor anywhere as inviting. The corners of his mouth tugged down, brows furrowing at the sound. 

“I created you.” The figure’s tone was softer, less commanding and coarse, though just as low, the words tumbling out of hushed lips. He unlocked his fingers then, extending a palm downwards towards the crumpled body at his feet, fingers barely grazing his cheek. The digits danced about his skin, not quite touching, as though he was weary of his creation, as though he expected him to fall to pieces beneath the gentlest caress of his fingertips, “You are my greatest creation.”

It was only then did the man lay a soft palm to his cheek, cupping his jaw with the most cautious of touches but, God, did he crave that touch. Every inch of skin that brushed against the being’s pale flesh was set alight, burning at such an intensity it felt as though he was in the presence of the torches of heaven, an unending yearning pounding through his veins. He moved into the touch, sighing at the way the figure’s fingers curled into the short locks that framed his face, nails dragging across his skin. 

He knew what he was thanking the being for then. He knew why he was on his knees, hunched over and trembling, craning his neck to drink up the celestial form that befell him. He knew why his heart pumped the blood through his veins. He knew why he felt the warmth and saw the light and worshipped the beauty. It was all because of him. It was all for him. 

“Who are you?” The figure leaned further over him in response, looming over him in a way that should have scared him, should’ve made him cower under his gaze, but only served to make his body shake in anticipation. The air seemed to swirl around the two, disturbed by the sudden movement, subtle particles of dust illuminated and sprawling. He swallowed thickly. The being smiled.

“I’m Dream,” He tested the word in his mouth, repeating it like a prayer on his lips, “And you, are my Corinthian.”

—

For the first millennium, he was the only creation. 

Save for the kingdom’s bones and the dreams themselves, Corinthian was the first thing that Dream had brought into creation, the first thing that he had moulded into existence with whispered words and soft smiles and even gentler touches. He formed Corinthian over and over, each night perfecting his creation, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms and back, leaving crescent bruises on his thighs with his fingertips. Slender arms snaked around his torso with each perfection, knotted with muscle and just as unblemished as the first day, pulling bodies impossibly closer together. 

Dream would whisper in his ear as he did so, lips wandering around the shell of his ear, taunting as he spilled secrets and hopes and desires and fears, a concoction of all things holy and dirty that left him shivering and gasping in his hands. When he was done with words, his lips would split into a smile against Corinthian’s cheek, the plump flesh pulled tight against his skin, causing his own features to lighted at the feeling. Then, Dream was free to drag those sinful lips against the smooth column of his neck, tasting tanned flesh, before pressing wet kisses under his throat. It was magnificent. It was divine. 

Where the night wore tired and the sky paled, the two beings did not. They stayed, bodies flush against each other, limbs tangled and twisting. Words did not often pass between the two, spare Dream’s quiet ramblings, instead their mouths were occupied with soft sighs and gentle gasps. Occasionally, Dream would allow Corinthian to crumple their lips together, mouths gentle yet desperate and, oh, so sacred. 

Those touches were his favourite. When he could feel the King’s lips against his own, the sliding drag of his tongue against his sealed mouth, asking permission for entrance. Of course, he abided. He would always abide Dream’s desires. When his lips parted, he could taste Dream; he was sweet and rich, an enticing flavour that he could never fully savour. His tongue would dive greedily into the other’s mouth, a desperate plea for more, for anything his King would give him. They rarely drew back for breath, instead connecting their lips for what seemed an eternity, hands caressing each other’s skin, bodies rocking gently together. He could get lost in the other’s touch, in the warmth of flesh against his own and the taste of being alive. 

Whatever Dream gave him was never enough. By morning, the King would push a final kiss into his skin, a bittersweet finale to the night of destruction and creation, of tearing down his nightmare and building him back up again. Stronger, better, more devout. Hands would roam up his body once more, nipping at the soft flesh of his thighs, dancing fingertips up his sturdy frame until reaching his jaw. There, Dream would cup his face, just like the day he was first brought into existence, and fingers would tangle in his hair once more, winding digits into fair locks. His farewells would consist of two words, the syllables that had welcomed him into this plane, lips pressed flush against his ear. 

“My nightmare.“

Then, Dream would go. Fingers retreating from skin, bodies pulled apart to allow the air to rush between them, chilling his bones and causing bumps to adorn any exposed flesh. The lips that had been so firm against his own were gone too soon, leaving only the tingling, burning sensation of where they had pressed into his frame, where that had wandered over his body only moments before. The words that had been scrawled into the shell on his ear were scrubbed clean, leaving only the shallow impressions of the secrets that were imparted, not nearly as beautiful as when they were first murmured.

The worst part of it all was watching his eyes turn from him, dropping the gaze that he so desperately craved. When those swirling, sapphire eyes met his own, dark lashes lazily splaying over cheekbones, Corinthian knew who he belonged to. He knew that that intimacy, that unwavering connection was all his in that moment. No one shared Dream when it was them alone, no one knew his body and his mind when the two met. He desired nothing more than to have those eyes burning into him, commanding and strong, pleading and vulnerable, stripping away every inch of self restraint he had retained. It was addictive. 

Though he knew that Dream would visit him again the next night, when he had prepared the human’s dreams and had gone about his duties, he would appear to Corinthian. The nights made the King hungry, he had found, and he would waste no time pouncing on his creation, hands splayed against flesh, desperate and rough and everything Corinthian prayed for. He would be moulded and shaped again, putty under Dreams' wandering gaze and low drawl, only able to say his King’s name and grip harder onto the sturdy frame beside him. 

Then, like all good and sacred things, it came to an end. 

All too soon the King busied himself with his Kingdom and his creations, casting his mind from the formation of dreams to the formation of beings, just like his Corinthian. He would spend months on end in his throne room, the room in which he had been brought into existence, building up new life, then tearing it down again, only to sculpt a more magnificent version of what it had once been. Each detail was deliberated and careful, each contour of each being cautiously crafted with soft hands and gliding palms, moved, removed, piece after piece after piece. The King barely moved, or talked, or ate. Just created beauty with his own imagination, letting his kingdom slip from his view as he did so. 

Dream rarely visited him during those periods of time, when his mind was so far from where his wandering hands were on Corinthian’s skin. It seemed as though matter how Corinthian tried to entice him, tried to distract him with gentle kisses and rough grips against flesh, nothing could fully pull his mind away from the marvel of creating new life. Even when he could concentrate on his first creation, their gazes never met, the King’s eyes always cast away from his features. 

Corinthian gave up trying to convince Dream to visit him, allowing him to become absent and vacant, weeks stretching into months when he would barely even catch a glimpse of the King that was once so familiar. Though he did try to visit him once in his throne room, his presence was barely acknowledged. He wasn’t well acquainted with pain, but he was fairly sure the sickening squeezing of his lungs and the shortness of his breath and the way his stomach would knot uncomfortably when he thought of Dream was exactly that. 

When Dream completed his second creation, Corinthian felt his throat ache and his cheeks sting. The being was called Gault, sculpted to be the most beautiful, shapely woman that he had ever seen. Her skin was smooth, features wide and gleaming, all splitting smiles and high cheekbones. She walked with a grace that he could never hope to master, gliding around from room to room in the Kingdom, her being light and free as though gravity didn’t affect her in the slightest. Even her smallest of movements were precise and effortless, small hands toying at pages of the library’s books, fingers scraping their leather-bound shells. 

Though, that wasn’t all. Instead of an expanse of dark skin over her form, her canvas was made entirely of an explosion of hues, a vivid dance of colours and lights and stars. It was as though she had captured the night sky and painted her body with it, covering every surface with the impossible sight of a clear evening. Dust seemed to swirl around her body, alive and illuminated, bringing movement and cheer to her flesh, decorating each exposed inch with a twinkling glow. It reminded Corinthian of the ceiling of the King’s throne room. He recalled there being a time when he believed it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Corinthian looked down as his own blemished, freckled palm. 

The next being Dream’s skilled hands built up a creature like none other; one which he christened ‘Fiddler’s Green’. It was neither a place, nor a person, but rather just the existence of an idea. It was beautiful, just like every other one of the King’s creations, just like the King himself. An expanse of rolling chartreuse and towering waterfalls, a concentrated force of nature that ceased to fade or retreat. Plants covered all that the eye could see, a mottled depiction of hues that not even Mother Nature herself could have dreamed up. Trees towered in the horizon, illuminated by the perpetual haze of the sun that caused the bushing leaves to shiver happily and the bark crackle with joy. 

Bees buzzed lazily between the flowers, fat and happy from the abundance of pollen, their feet skimming over blooming petals and curling leaves. Branches made home to all species of birds and animals, making their homes in the comforting wooden spirals, nests perched neatly in preparation for winged families. Even the undergrowths were occupied by various creatures, timid and shying from view, though just as vibrant as everything other being that existed here. Of course, these entities were just an extension of the Green itself, encompassing all in a sprawling, heaving, bustling scene that lived in perfect harmony, in perfect tranquillity. 

Corinthian had spoken to Fiddler’s Green once before. He had wound up in its gardens, flowers brushing gently against his pale slacks, grass cheerful and vivid beneath his heel. He imagined the swaying of the trees and the soft hummm hummm of insects had been a welcome, a keen greeting that extended to every creature that existed there. Corinthian’s lips stayed in a firm line. The life around him continued on. 

“We have not met.” Was the first words that Green spoke to him, its voice neither innately feminine nor masculine, but rather composed of the buzz of the life that surrounded him. It was brilliant, however; it was so alive, filled with the noise and the thought and the existence of so much love that Corinthian’s chest heaved with something he couldn't identify. He didn’t enjoy the feeling. 

“No, I suppose we have not.” His voice was curt, rehearsed almost. A polite restraint of sorts, a monotonous drawl that gave nothing of his thoughts away to Green. He didn’t know why his heart felt so tight in the presence of such beauty. It was a different sort of sensation to when he experienced Dream’s angelic form; that beauty made him want to fall to his knees, to beg and to plead and to just drink in that what was his King. The vision of Green, so alive and so magnificent, made his stomach drop and his heart stammer and his fists ball at his sides. 

“It’s a pleasure. My name is Fiddler’s Green- I presume you’ve heard of me from Dream?” It’s tone was sincere and pleasant, a light conversational cheer held in the air. Corinthian bit his tongue. 

“Name’s Corinthian, and not much.” A lie. During one of Dream’s rare visits, he had whispered his plans for Green in his ear, voice light and content in a way Corinthian had never heard before. Between desperate hands running down his torso, pinching and exploring his creation over and over again, Dream had not stopped his lowly drawls about his newest being once. His lips pressed hard against Corinthian’s ear, he explained about the nature and the harmony, about just how perfect his newest creation was going to be. Finally, Corinthian slammed his lips against the other’s blush pair, stunning the King momentarily before settling into their familiar touch. He couldn’t stand another word. 

“Strange, he speaks of you often. Highly, may I add,” Corinthian raised a brow at this, his wandering gaze settling to look pointedly at a tree that towered to his left, “Whilst creating me, he would often talk about his first creation, how he had spent countless years perfecting you, shaping a flawless being.” 

His heart beat rapidly at Green’s words, knees weakening briefly as he thought of Dream’s low voice, praising and tempting. His expression remained unchanged, however, an eyebrow still arched up at the emerald extent of leaves, “Is that so?”

The tree swayed, once, twice, “Oh yes. To be honest, I was nervous I could ever live up to a creation such as you.” 

That made Corinthian pause. He lost himself momentarily, staring through the dappled, yellowing illumination that escaped through the leaves, his mind wandering far from the Green and back to something more familiar. Dream had spoken of him, he knew, but to hear such praise was surprising. The King rarely rewarded his creations or inhabitants with pleasant words, even Corinthian himself received little kind words in the centuries they had shared, so to hear such things almost made him smile. Almost. 

“And did you? Did you meet the King’s expectations?”

“Jury’s still out on that one.” Green’s voice wobbled, but took on a light quality, as though it was chuckling lowly. 

“And why’s that, if you pardon me asking?” Corinthian took a few paces, aimlessly striding in an feeble attempt to soothe his increasingly incessant thoughts. It wasn’t effective. His mind raced, confused and crying out for a clear direction, for someone to tell him to think and how to feel. He bit his tongue again. 

“Well, I don’t think Dream regards any of his creations as better or worse than any other,” Green began, its voice returning to its regular, unwavering drawl. Though, it felt a little deeper this time, the air a little stiller. It’s as though the creatures stood static for a moment, pausing in anticipation of Green’s words, each being holding its breath. Corinthian did too, “He spent so much time sculpting and moulding us into what we are today, pulling beings from all corners of non-existence into his realm. We were each uncreated, numb in the endless, waiting for him to breathe life into our bones. I don’t think there is much edge to be impartial when a part of him is in every one of us.”

Corinthian stilled. He thought about Green’s sincerity, about its beauty. About how there was not a single flaw to be found in such a perfect place, each creature working together in harmony, each plant stretching endlessly without the fear of drought or damage. He could certainly see how Green was made in the King’s image; there was so much about what Corinthian admired in Green’s emerald palace that could be found in Dream, all the beauty and softness and commanding presence that he so desperately craved. It was as though Green was all that was perfect in the King in the form of something new, something that rivalled the magnificence of Dream himself.

“Oh.” He cast his gaze to the ground, a silence stretching between the two entities. He couldn’t bring himself to look up again, to witness the King’s perfect creation, a coalescence of all things pleasant and stunning. His fingernails dug into his palms. 

Finally, Green spoke up, its tone gentle, but careful, “Though, he does seem to be quite attached to you.”

A singular daisy sprouted from the grass below him, bathed in the orange glow of the sun that escaped through the trees. Its petals stood straight and luscious, a pleasant blush of purple blooming from its centre, spreading through the pale surface until even the very tips of the plant were stained and colourful. Corinthian brought his heel down on it, twisting once, twice. When he dragged his boot back, the daisy remained upright, its petals pristine, swaying softly in the breeze. 

As the pause stretched on, Green spoke softly, “Do you not think so?”

The flower gazed at him, “I did once.” 

He extended a hand towards the daisy, brushing its vibrant-soaked petals with a soft fingertip. It wilted beneath his touch. 

He did not visit Fiddler’s Green again. 

—

Right up until the moment the corner of his eyes wetted and his cheeks stung and his throat ached, Corinthian hadn’t imagined that he was capable of crying. A hand balled at his side, the other scrubbing across a closed lid, palm harsh against the salted dew that clung to his lashes. He could vaguely feel a sliding tear track down his jaw, weaving around his features to make its way to his throat. The warm, wet press of the drop felt like a kiss below his adam’s apple, falling further still down the column of neck until it had been lost in white fabric and trembling flesh. He wiped at it harshly. 

He was barely aware of when his shoulders began to shake, his whole body crumpling and contorting into itself with every shuddering convulsion. Gasping breaths escaped parted lips, and he had to clamp a firm hand over his mouth to stop the pained noises. Though, this just seemed to intensify the stinging in his throat and the constricting of his lungs, knees weak and heart aching painfully in a shrink-wrap chest. Everything felt too tight, too little, too much hurt burdening a body that suddenly felt all too small. 

For a moment, he forgot exactly how he came to be sobbing in that vacant restroom. The nightmare’s hand came to grip the edge of the porcelain sink he had collapsed over, olive digits splayed over the bleach-bright rim. But that ignorant bliss lasted only seconds before he recalled the conversation, sobs coming to rack his body once again. 

Only moments earlier had he found himself in the place he was conceived, in the chamber of his creator. It was just as grand as the first time he had witnessed it, despite that being centuries ago now, managing to make his knees weak and his head spin. The towering, carved arches of the hall announced his arrival, standing firm around him with expecting gazes, familiar and comforting. Even the tiles that thumped under heavy steps were just as cool and monotonous as when he came to being (he expected that if he were to extend a hand towards them, they would be just as unblemished, too). The only difference was the sudden distaste Corinthian acquired for the star-adorned scene that stretched above him. He felt no need to spare it a glance. 

Instead, his gaze stilled upon the figure in front of him. Dream rested on the spiralling stairs that climbed the foremost of the throne room, extending towards the mass of hues and shapes that formed three immense, stained glass windows. His figure was rigid and contemplating, heels fixed firmly on the ground, spine straight and shoulders back. The billowing fabric of his robe splayed against the stone steps, the inky material bleeding into the pale architecture- a striking contrast. Two exposed, twisting hands stretched out, a murky flow of particles flitting about his form, bending and dancing with every flex of his fingers. Corinthian lost himself in the sight momentarily, wondering if this is what it looked like before he had fully come into existence. 

He took a couple of paces towards the King, heels striking against stone before a silence fell upon the room. Dream didn’t acknowledge his arrival. 

“My Lord,” Corinthian spoke up into the quiet, voice even and low. He took another step towards his creator, arms draped limply at his sides, useless and heavy. His tongue hung in a similar manner, dry and unusable, though he forced the words out regardless. When another heavy silence settled over the two, Corinthian spoke again, “My Lord, may I speak with you?”

“Speak.” The noise was barely above a murmur, muttered so lowly into the vast chamber that it was almost entirely lost to the great space. Still, Corinthian caught the command, his chest constricting at the sound instantaneously, his heart initiating a pounding beat in his ears. It had been so long since he had heard his Dream’s voice, had had the pleasure of knowing those honey-soaked syllables and rich, growling drawls. The countless nights spent trying to recreate that familiar, lilting tone were wasted now that he was again faced with the real thing. No artificial sounds he imagined could measure up to reality, and he found himself wishing Dream had said more. 

“You’re creating again.” It wasn’t a question, just an observation. He couldn’t bring himself to say what he really wanted to. Not when Dream was in front of him, all sharp angles and firm features and aching beauty. 

The King did not take his eyes off of his current creation, “Yes.”

Corinthian’s brows furrowed and his lips drew down, mouth pressing into a tight line, “I thought Gault and Green were beings enough?”

“No.” Dreams hands twisted suddenly then, elbows becoming ridged and straight, palms flipping to face the mottled-hue roof. Fingers pinched and caressed at the spiralling dust, eyes narrowing as it transformed and churned with each agitation from his fingertips. Coloured lines began to take shape within the whirling cloud, bending and writhing and paling as Dreams' fingertips probed at them gently, creating something new from seemingly nothing. The entire time his gaze remained on the swirling mass in front of him, not once moving to meet his first creation. 

Corinthian let out a soft, frustrated groan, watching Dream’s eyelashes flutter against high cheekbones, “But, were they not perfect?”

“Nothing is entirely perfect.” Corinthian had to confess that he didn’t understand. Usually, he followed Dream’s soft ramblings in his ears at night, back when their visits were frequent and their bodies familiar. He understood his King’s mind, the way it leapt and calculated and raced faster than any mortal being could hope to keep up with. He knew what to say, how to respond, when to stop the flow of ideas by pressing an open-mouthed press against the side of his head. But in the King’s absence, Corinthian no longer knew how to read the words, how to receive his creator's murmured messages. He frowned up at the other being. 

“But, you spent so much time on them,” His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears, low and wavering. Dream didn’t realise the change in his creations tone, or at least refused to acknowledge it, hands never once stilling. Corinthian grew impatient, teeth gritting, “You sat here for weeks- months! You did not move, you did not rest, and yet they were still not perfect?”

Silence again. He couldn’t bear anymore of this quiet between them, it felt as though he were being rejected all over again, as though the time they had spent apart meant nothing to his creator. Though, he supposed, it didn’t. Dream was the one that had initiated the informal separation, the one who had stopped visiting without a word of warning. At Least Corinthian had plucked up the courage to visit the King a couple of times, to try and remind him of what mattered. Of who mattered. But his maker had not bothered to reciprocate the efforts.

After an undetermined stretch of hush, Dream uttered a response, “Not entirely.”

Corinthian sucked in a harsh breath, lips parting and dry. He thought to the two other beings that had been created, about how awed he had been to witness their flawless presentations, about how he had dragged his gaze over both entities, unable to place a single problem. He briefly allowed his mind to wonder; if the King had determined those beings defective, deformed in ways that were unidentifiable to his oldest creation, what could his maker think of him? With a slight shake in his voice, Corinthian breathed, “These beings, these new creations. Will they be perfect?”

“No.” 

“ Then what’s the point? ” The words came harsher to his lips than intended, the outburst causing Dream’s movements to pause momentarily. The King’s hands stilled in the air, dust still swirling around stationary digits, weaving between pale skin and thin wrists. A lock of inky hair fell over his eyes, concealing what little of those deep blues Corinthian could see.

“There is not always a point.” He was taken aback by the sudden softness of the sound, Dream’s voice barely audible above the pounding of blood in his ears. All cold tones had left his voice, all harsh notes and jarring drawls absent from the mutters. It struck Corinthian then how melodic his maker’s voice really was; he had always thought that dream’s lilting speech was something to marvel, deep and rough, soft and careful. Now, it seemed to relieve the stress from his taunt libs, irritation dying down in his throat.  

Instead of biting back at the King, shouting and screaming and begging at his feet, Corinthian curled his nails into his palms. Lashes fluttered over tanned cheeks, the skin feeling suddenly too tight, an unfamiliar stinging pricking his nose and throat, “Then why do you do it?” He swallowed, chest tightening, “Why do you stay here day after day, week after week to create something flawed. Something not as designed, something that will not please you the way you intended?”

“Nothing is entirely perfect.”

“You said that-” Corinthian growled, leering up at Dream, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal a set of sharp, gleaming teeth. All the resentment that he had harboured for so long came rushing back into him, his body thrumming with the intensity of  bitter indignation that pumped through his veins. His shoulders squared defensively, throat still stinging, nails digging into the flesh of his hands. The King's gaze didn’t budge. Corinthian snarled. “My Lord, can you not even look at me? Can you not cast your eyes away for even a moment? Do I pain you that much to look upon?”

Corinthian barely even had time to register the way Dream’s face snapped around to him, body stiff and unmoving despite the sudden movement. The dust that had once swirled about him, weaving and bobbing and creating ceased, dropping from their air like rain from a cloud. Corinthian almost expected them to thud to the floor, each grain bouncing against the smooth steps with heavy clunk-clunk-clunks, but watched as they instead disintegrated into the carved stone, smouldering and dimming like embers. It created a sudden, soft glow of amber around the King, illuminating every pale feature and sharp angle, creating a golden halo around his entire frame. 

This didn’t capture Corinthian’s attention for long, however, as soon he dragged his gaze up to meet his maker’s own. Dream’s eyes were wide, brows raised and lids sloping. Dark creases rimmed his bottom lashes, extensive and juxtaposing against his porcelain skin, devoid of the usual tinted blush. The whites of his eyes seemed to seep into an angry red, irises still that divine blue that made Corinthian’s breath stammer. From his position away from the King, he could barely make out the cloudy sheen that spread over his orbs, red-rimmed and reflecting, moisture collecting at the corners. 

Dream’s lips parted then, brows creasing and lids fluttering, seizing a sharp intake of air. Corinthian steeled himself, “You do not pain me, my nightmare.”

If he had thought Dream’s voice soft before, it was nothing compared to the words just spoke. Emotion soaked each syllable, a slow, shaking and deliberate statement that made Corinthian’s heart seize and throat burn and breath fall short and all he wanted was to fall to his knees. His head betrayed him, spinning and racing and crying out for the divine presence in front of him. His legs felt unsteady, as if they were threatening to buckle underneath his weight, preventing him from stepping toward his maker and desperately clutching at his robes, as he did the first time they met. Instead, Corinthian swallowed thickly, features crumpling, “Then why have you not visited me, Dream? Why have you cast me aside? I have not seen you for months now.”

Dream did not allow the same degree of vulnerability to overcome his features, yet his lashes seemed to dampen with each quivering blink, “I have been busy,” his jaw hardened, “I am a King.”

“Too busy to even speak with me? To meet me? To touch me?” Corinthian’s voice tapered off, each word becoming breathier and more muted than the last. He was not entirely sure if the King even caught the last query, but one glance at those aggrieved, sapphire orbs suggested otherwise. A storm seemed to wage in Dream’s irises, a conflicting tale of tempestuous tides as though an entire ocean was contained in his mind, battling for an answer to his creation’s demands. 

“I cannot touch you,” The words found their way cautiously onto the king's lips, smooth and low, but not entirely convincing, “Not now.” 

“Why?” Corinthian stepped forward, examining the way Dream seemed to flinch at the movement. That tiny, uncontrollable twitch caused him to crumple his brows, distressed and confused and hurt. He cast his gaze away, down to where his hands were still balled against his sides. The skin was pulled taut across his knuckles, pailing and angry. A freckle stood stark against the flesh. He glanced back at the King, “Is it because I’m too flawed for you?” Because I cannot rival the beauty of Green, nor the grace of Gault?” This time it was Dream who looked away,  “Am I not enough ?”

“No.” The response came quick, calculated. Dream captured Corinthian’s gaze once again, eyes narrowing pointedly. The latter did not have enough time to hurt before the King spoke again,  “You were my first creation. You took years to build, and even longer to mould and sculpt into the being you are now. You are the most complex creature I have brought into existence; you were made to be feared, and you were made to be flawed.” Dream paused, eyelids heavy, “But, you were also made to be compassionate, to be cruel, to be angry,” his voice seemed to die down to a whisper in his throat, “and, to love. You are the closest I have ever got to creating perfection.”

Corinthian’s brows raised, a blooming conflict spreading through his thoughts. It felt as though Dream’s cold hand had reached through his chest- icy skin searing layers of muscle and tissue- and had gripped his heart, squeezing a frosted torment into his blood. He exhaled a single, shuddering breath, “I’m not enough.”

“Nightmare-”

“You made me this way, you made me this flawed, and now punish me for it.” Corinthian cut him off bitterly, tracking the way Dream’s jaw squared. The King’s hand flexed, the movement small and easily dismissed, fingers twitching just as they had when creating his new beings. But this time, there was no building. No swirling masses, no formation fashioned from the grandest of materials. Just the figure of his King, cold and unmoving and suddenly so small against that ascending staircase of stone. He did not speak up again, electing to cast his eyes from his creation’s gaze. Corinthian almost pitied him.

“My Lord, you are cruel.” 

When Dream did not respond, eyes still fixed to the floor beneath him, Corinthian turned on his heel. He could not stand the sight of the King anymore, the man that had spent so long building him up, night after night, to discard him without a second thought. The nightmare decided that Dream was selfish. Self-absorbed and self-seeking. He had cast his once favourite creation away without reason, as and when it was convenient. This was the King’s doing. 

So why was Corinthian’s throat burning? Why were cheeks becoming flush and blistering, nose blocked and throat dry? The nightmare took shuddering steps towards the room’s grand exit, away from his creator and towards looming doors. He briefly felt a prickling on the back of his neck as he walked, the burning of eyes on his flesh, but did not turn back. Instead, he tipped his head back, trying to relieve the alien, searing sensation of his skin, leering at the roof that he avoided so adamantly only moments before. It’s not though he could even properly study the sight- he vision had begun to blur, eyelids stinging bitterly with each fluttering blink. He swallowed thickly, swinging open the chamber’s doors in a single, harsh movement.

Instead of ending up outside the entrance to the room, however, Corinthian found himself standing in an unfamiliar space. The door gave a shuddering thunk behind him, announcing its closure and causing the nightmare to crane his neck sharply. He found that the leering, towering entrance that had been only a few paces behind him was replaced by a smaller door, covered in an ugly turquoise vinyl instead of the carved grandeur he had expected. His nose stung, vision blurring as he halfheartedly surveyed the room. 

In his disoriented state, Corinthian gathered, he had wandered from the Dreaming into the Waking world. More specifically the bathroom of what the nightmare assumed to be some sort of Diner- the tiled walls home to various framed advertisements and bold, exaggerated menus that he barely had time to study before warm moisture began streaking down his cheeks. He took a few shaking steps towards the room’s porcelain sink, hands hasty to grip the rim; he needed something to keep him steady, keep him grounded, his knees weakening by the second. 

That’s how the nightmare found himself, gazing wide-eyed in wonder at his reflection, watching with horror as tears escaped his sockets, nestling into the crook of his neck. The dirtied mirror revealed flushed, angry cheeks, stark and tear-stained against his drained features, nose sporting an equally feverish blush. The prickling, scorching sensation deep under his skin made sense the longer he studied his mirrored self, his breathing becoming increasingly erratic. Sure, the nightmare had watched humans cry, he had even been the cause of it, but he never even considered that he could experience such overwhelming sorrow. It was a vivid, wrenching sort of grief, the kind that caused him to release a heavy, uncontrollable sob, tears falling more freely now.

The rejection from Dream was more than he could take; before when his creator was simply ignoring him, his dejection could have been easily dismissed. Dream’s absence was excusable, explainable almost. Though his flesh cried out for the other’s each night, craving the sensation of cool, smooth skin over his own, the relieving touch of strong fingers against his body, he had been able to ignore it. Even when his mind had also bent to his body’s desires, his thoughts often wandering to his absent King, he had been able to somewhat dampen his concerns. But now he knew- he could no longer dismiss those grieving notions. He was no longer enough for his creator. 

With a trembling palm, Corinthian scrubbed at his eyelids, looking back to his reflection. He saw the uneven hues of his skin; the bridge of his nose was darker than the shallows of his cheeks, and his forehead creased with each subtle movement of his brows. Freckles dusted his sloping features, discolouring his skin, angry and dark against flushed flesh. Shallow lines ran from his nose to the corner of his mouth, his lips thin and pale. Corinthian’s fingers shook as he brought them to his cheekbones, cupping his searing flesh. He dragged his gaze back to meet his eyes.

Only instead of meeting soft, shining orbs, he was faced with two sets of teeth concealed somewhat behind fluttering lashes and heavy lids. 

He knew what he was- he knew what he looked like. He had lived with his reflection, his ‘eyes’ for thousands of years without sparing them much thought. Never had he considered them like this. Never had he considered them so frightful, so unsettling. So ugly . There were gnashing, sharp things, pale and gleaming under the artificial, amber glow of the diner’s dim lights. They shuddered and contracted with each breath, hungry and demolishing, grinding and thrashing and chewing. Corinthian let out another open-mouthed cry at the sight, sliding his hands up his face to cover them.

He knew then that wasn’t even comparable to Dream’s other creations. He wasn’t beautiful. His creator couldn’t touch something so utterly flawed. 

Corinthian sobbed harder.

—

After that, Corinthian did not seek out the Dreaming again, instead choosing to stay in the Waking world. He had never been around humans for such an extended amount of time- despite existing for many centuries, Corinthian had always stayed in the Dreaming, only visiting the nightmares of mortals in order to do what he was created to do. To do what suited and pleased the King. Now, however, he had spent some considerable years amongst the living, learning how very rich and vibrant life was away from the constraints of his duties. 

For a while, Corinthian had found his thoughts wandering back to Dream, craving the normalcy and structure of his life as a nightmare. But after a few years, he no longer felt that desperation to satisfy the King, to bend to his creators ever will and whim. No, these days he had found he desired quite the opposite. At first, this rebellion against the King had started small; he abandoned all duties as a nightmare, and interacted with humans on their plane, something that was entirely frowned upon for a creation such as himself. Then, he had found himself wanting more, wanting to harm Dream, to make him feel the pain he had felt when he was abandoned by the only being he had truly known. 

So, Corinthian started entering dreams, turning them ghastly and unpleasant, harming those who had the misfortune of crossing his path. He would taint their desires, turn them away from all things good and holy to initiate an onslaught of horror and mutilation. Sometimes, he would slice their flesh with various knives, eyes widening behind dark glasses at how their skin split and blood would flow freely from their wounds, adorning their bodies with streaking patterns of flecking scarlet. Other times, he would command them to hold their hand over flames, forcing their eyelids open and their throats closed as flesh seared and bubbled and cracked, blackening and warped under the torrid heat. 

His favourite nightmare, however, was the times when he would pin his victims down, heavy body covering their trembling frames, bracketing their torsos with muscle-knotted thighs. Corinthian would reassure them, shushing and cooing them gently, running heavy hands over shallow cheeks and wide eyes, collecting tears in the palm of their hand. Once their heavy sobs had ceased, their bodies stilling, lips still parted and gasping for air, Corinthian would place his hands on their faces once more. Only this time, they were much less soft. He would squeeze their heads in his hands, soft skulls groaning and cracking under the immense pressure, watching as their eyes flashed with pain and despair and then acceptance. He would meet their pleading glances with three, sharp-toothed grins before pushing his thumbs into their sockets, digits splaying over blood-stained cheeks to prevent their thrashing movements. When their bodies finally stilled, and the red seeping from heavy lids became slow and cool, Corinthian would sit back on his heels, eyeballs in hand, running a greedy gaze over his work.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was fixated so on the mortals’ eyes; perhaps it was their unending beauty. Some part of him still craved to hold such a divine view, to be in the presence of beauty as he did so frequently many years ago. The eyes, Corinthian found, were a source of this- they swirled and gleamed, holding so many vivid hues and dynamic palettes, each one so unique and so breathtaking. He would glance over the eyes for hours after life had drained from them, searching for that sort of angelic presence, before finally devouring them and all the life they had witnessed.

But, perhaps it was just because he could never truly have them.

Soon, Corinthian decided that it wasn’t enough. He became insatiable for something more than just nightmares, just figments of beauty that could never truly be his. So. he moved onto the mortal plane, finding his victims in the Waking world and enchanting them with kind words and soft glances. Humans, in his experience, were easily won over by a toothy smile and a gentle hand running down their arm, their cheek, their thigh. They were led into his deception with open arms and grinning lips, so happy to be wanted that they threw all caution to the wind. They were foolish and naive, and some part of Corinthian despised the fact that he was once so like them. 

That’s how the nightmare found himself pressing a warm body against an unfamiliar wall, one hand splayed behind the stranger's head, the other gripping desperately at the exposed skin of his midriff. One of his thighs had found a home between the man’s own, slotted naturally between trembling knees and rough denim, pinning him further to the brick behind them. Their lips clashed, a rough mesh of plump flesh and clashing teeth, tongues exploring each other’s unfamiliar mouths. They did not draw back for breath, instead electing to gasp against each other’s skin, muffled, rumbling groans escaping the both of them. 

Corinthian wasn't exactly sure where he was; he had found the man at a bar, the name of which he hadn’t bothered to commit to memory, and did not waste time striking up a conversation. The place was seedy and dimly lit, not allowing the nightmare to study the stranger entirely, not that it mattered. He could vaguely make out the man’s slim frame and dark hair, inky and messy, locks falling to conceal his features. Corinthian had taken an instant liking to it. Soon, the man suggested that they should retire to his apartment, a proposal that was met by a cool, enthusiastic nod from the nightmare. Before the being had time to process it, they were tumbling through the stranger’s home, bodies pressed together, placing greedy kisses against each other’s smooth skin.

The nightmare drew his mouth from the man’s briefly to kiss down the slope of his cheek, tongue darting out to taste the pale flesh of his jaw, before nestling behind the man's ear. He let out a sharp gasp at this, voie low and keening, pawing desperately at Corinthian’s broad shoulders with heavy hands. Corinthian smiled against the man’s flesh before resuming his movement’s over the stranger’s neck, tonguing and sucking to bruise pale skin. To mark the desperate, flailing man. He whined again, nails scraping at the Corinthian over the thin material of his shirt, digging crescent lesions into the nightmare’s back and shoulder-blades. 

Once Corinthian was satisfied with the swelling discolouration at the man’s throat, he pulled back to admire the mark. It was dark and raised against the man’s porcelain canvas, spreading and blooming with a soft purple hue. Corinthian’s mind flickered with images of a singular, mauve-mottled daisy. He busied himself by slamming his lips back into the plump pair before him, the stranger sighing and arching into the touch. His back raised from the wall, hips rutting gently over Corinthian’s thigh that slotted between two unfamiliar ones.

The man raised a hand to the nightmare’s tinted glasses. Corinthian batted it away in one swift, practised move.

“Bed?” The sound was breathy and whining, barely mumbled between the air between them, desperate kisses not allowing for the stranger to speak further. Corinthian grinned once again over the man’s lips, feeling the stretch of the other’s own, reciprocating smile under him. He did not need to respond; the nightmare dragged his hand down to the man’s torso, bunching his fists up in the fabric of the man’s t-shirt, pulling his body further into his, He used the leverage to drag the man away from the wall and towards the bed on the opposing wall, his lips never once leaving the stranger’s. When the backs of his knees came into contact with the soft mattress, the nightmare pulled away. 

The man made a displeased whine in the back of his throat, missing the warm contact of Corinthian’s mouth, but the noise was soon replaced with a soft ‘ oof’ as the nightmare pushed him down onto the mattress. Corinthian straddled the man, hands splayed against his chest, pushing the fabric of his shirt up to reveal an expanse of pale skin at his stomach. The nightmare shifted back, neck craning to press firm kisses as the newly-revealed canvas, tongue darting over the soft ridges of muscle that dipped and twisted below the skin. He pushed his lips firmly against the sparse trail of hair there, smiling softly as the man’s legs shuddered, quivering breaths escaping his throat at each movement of Corinthian’s mouth. The nightmare pulled back, sitting back on his heels to gaze with heavy lids over the man. 

Corinthian’s breath caught in his throat. 

Now, under the bright, bleaching glare of the apartment’s lights, he was finally able to study the stranger in front of him. The man was all pale skin and twisting limbs, thin frame laying dishevelled and quivering against the mattress. A halo of soft, dark hair splayed around the pillow below the man’s head, a juxtaposition of inky locks that no longer covered those sharp features. Dark lashes fluttered over high cheekbones, lids heavy and wanting, batting up at the Corinthian. His nose was strong and straight, balancing out a sharp jaw and plump lips, still parted and wet from the kisses that befell them only moments earlier. But what really caught the nightmare’s gaze was his eyes. 

Corinthian could make out their deep, swirling blue hue, dark and lustful staring back up at him. They appeared endless; a  rippling, wanton abyss that contained entire azure galaxies and battling oceans, stirring alive with each hazy blink. They flashed and flickered, catching the artificial glow of the overhead lamp, which only served to highlight their sapphire shade, a tint that he had only once seen before- in his creator’s eyes. 

No wonder Corinthian had been so drawn to this man.

He was the spitting image of his maker, only not so perfect. Not so divine. Regardless, Corinthian felt the same pulling, urging sensation towards the vision before him as he did when gazing upon his creator. The very same gut-wrenching, spine-tingling, pleasure-coursing feeling as he did so many years ago. It was unpleasant. He wanted more. Though his mind was somewhat conflicted, Corinthian did not move from his position above the stranger, thighs still locked around two knees, hands heavy on that pale, pale skin. He could feel the man’s goosebumps. 

“What is it?” The man’s voice was timid, cautious. It was low, Corinthian noted, but didn’t even begin to capture the way in which his maker’s tone would make his hands tremble and his thighs tense and his heart beat just a few paces faster. The stranger raised a slender hand towards Corinthian’s cheek, resting gentle fingertips on the tanned skin found there, curving his digits downwards to nestle in the crook of Corinthian’s neck. The nightmare moved into the touch somewhat. 

Instead of responding, Corinthian just resumed the movement of his hands on the man’s torso, exploring the expanse of white skin found there. He wondered briefly if the man had ever experienced the touch of sunlight; the milky canvas was unblemished by freckles, almost blending with the cream bed sheets he lay upon. Corinthian had the sudden urge to mark it, to corrupt that marble-like structure of flesh and muscle, tuck little bruises into the ridges of the stranger’s stomach. Then, he could dig his nails into the man’s solid forearms, watching blood define the crescent breaks of skin, like a perfect mould of where his hand would lay. Perhaps then he would pluck out those swirling abysses of blue, dig his thumbs into sockets and watch as life drained from unfamiliar eyes. The idea didn’t seem to satisfy him as much as he thought it would.

The man whined out a breathy sentence that sounded like, “ C’mon, touch me ”, but Corinthian couldn’t be sure. Not with the way the man had begun quivering under every slight of his fingers, shuddering breaths escaping peach lips, a chorus of breathy moans sounding as angelic as a seraph’s song. The stranger twisted beneath him.

“Impatient, are we?” Corinthian let out a chuckle. His voice cracked. Hand balled in a dark, unfamiliar shirt, the nightmare pulled the thin material up, exposing more of the man’s skin. When the fabric bunched above a flat chest, the stranger eagerly raised his arms, allowing Corinthian to pull it off the rest of the way. Then, he was free to let his hands roam over the stranger’s revealed form, revelling in the sharp jut of hip bones, the soft mound of a chest, the smooth column of a neck. Corinthian pushed his lips back onto the stranger’s skin, mouthing up from his stomach to his chest, nipping flesh with sharp teeth only to soothe it with the gentle press of his tongue. He smiled at the flaws he had created. 

“You’re a tease,” He could hear the laugh in the stranger’s voice, lightening the tone, the syllables chiming into frenzied air. Corinthian’s mouth found the other’s again, pressing a chaste kiss to a plump upper lip, before crushing against the man entirely. His tongue delved greedily to feel the ridges of unfamiliar teeth, tasting the residue of alcohol from the seedy bar they had met at only hours prior. It was bitter and the Nightmare didn’t much care for the taste; in recent years, he had found himself somewhat of a Whiskey snob, and preferred to steer clear of cheap beers and tasteless wines. His chest tightened with the desire for an ancient, sweet flavour.

The stranger drew away from the kiss to let out a whine, two pale hands stilling on a still-clothed chest, balling in the material. The fists pulled Corinthian down further, joining their bodies, torsos flush against each other. It was too warm. Corinthian spoke against skin, “Okay, Okay. I’ll stop playing with my food.” The stranger laughed. Corinthian’s smile didn’t extend to the rest of his features, but that didn’t stop his wandering hands from tugging at the stranger’s belt loops, dark denim digging into the crooks of his fingers. The man complied, shimmying his hips with a faint laugh, breathy against the lips that remained on his. 

The nightmare wasted no time pushing a hand into tight boxers, blindly wrapping around the man’s already hard, weeping length. At the touch, there came a sharp moan against his mouth, peeling lips from their tight embrace, a string of saliva connecting the swelling flesh. Corinthian’s mouth curled into a smile, one corner lifting further than the other, before moving his hand up, down, and up again. Though the scratching, compressed material of the man’s underwear restricted his movements somewhat, he was still able to reduce the man underneath him to a quivering, whining, corrupted mess. 

With one stroke, he was tearing the man down, gaze unfaltering, watching as eyes rolled back and scratching groans escaped wet lips. The stranger thrashed and quivered, marble skin rippling as he was being remastered by heavy touches and firm limbs. When he had reached rock bottom, when all of his thoughts and dignity had been stripped from him, leaving him frail and exposed and malleable, Corinthian would swipe a thumb over the man’s tip, dipping and circling, forming and perfecting. That was when the stranger could be built back up once again, thighs trembling, hands scraping over the sheets, exposed skin, finally resting the nightmare’s solid bicep. He would be built back up to the very edge, throwing his head back and letting out low whines, before Corinthian would tear him right back down again. 

His movements never stilling, Corinthian pushed his mouth against the newly exposed column of the man’s neck, back over the mark he had created only moments earlier. It had already begun to fade back into the pale expanse, a barely perceptible swelling of lavender against a heaving landscape of white. Corinthian decided that that wouldn’t do. He attacked the skin, crushing his lips against salted skin, teeth scraping and nipping as he did so. The man whined, spurring on his movements, mouth moving faster, hand gripping tighter onto feverish flesh.

Then, finally, the man had been perfected. Corinthian had tore him down and mouded him for the last time, his marble skin sculpted immaculately, rivalling the skill of Michalangelo, or Donatello, or God himself. There was a long, scratching moan from above him, the tone low and breathless, beautiful and blessed. Thighs stilled beneath him, chest rising and falling softly, a hand coming to caress under the short sleeve of Corinthian’s shirt. 

The nightmare pulled away from where he had made his home in the man’s flesh, gaze dragging over the corrupted skin still slick with saliva. It was a mess of blooming hues, all blotching teals and marbled mauves. Towards the edges, yellows adorned the flesh, almost blending with the white expanse that surrounded it. It was beautiful; an imperfection, a blemish, a consecrated contusion on something so flawless. 

Corinthian looked at the bruise. 

A galaxy of mottled blue. A rolling landscape of chartreuse. A purple-stained flower. 

Then, he pushed a thumb into the stranger’s eye socket, not pausing to flinch at the screams. 

—

The next time he saw Dream, it was raining.

Corinthian had only noted this because he hadn’t dressed for the weather; his slacks were pale and thin, allowing the chilly breeze and icy water to penetrate the material, clinging uncomfortably to his calves. The flimsy fabric of his shirt also didn’t so much to protect him from the elements, his forearms exposed and decorated with dew drops, running down the curves of his flesh. The nightmare had watched the rain stain his skin, warping the warm hue of his limbs until they would succumb to gravity and drop like lead to the ground. They did not smoulder and dim like embers. They splashed and chimed and stung like tears. 

Another thing he noticed was how still it was. Sure, the air was flurrying with the movement of thousands of teardrops blemishing the night sky, each drip splattering and pitter-pattering against cobble. But there was a strange, sleepy sereness clinging to the air, the rain only adding to the almost pleasant scene. A singular, flickering street lamp illuminated the area, the artificial glow almost entirely buried beneath shadows. There was no stirring in the night, no people or creatures or beings stalking the barren streets, no slapping footsteps or padding paws- just the drowning drone of a torrential cloudburst.

The nightmare shifted, his legs becoming stiff from propping him up, the rough jutting of bricks scraping into his back. Rain splattered at the dark leather of his shoes, staining and muddying their pristine forms, though the covered overpass he found himself beneath shielded him from the full force of the weather. He ground his heel into the dirt, watching the grime bunch around the material, a miniature mountain of saturated sludge and mud. Corinthian wondered how long the rain would last; how long it would be until he could escape the dim alley and flee to somewhere where the air didn’t sting his face, where the downpour didn’t cause him to bite his cheek. 

It was only then, as the nightmare stared into the amassing dirt at his feet, did he feel a pair of eyes burning into the side of his head. He didn’t look up, not immediately at least. He allowed the glare to rest on the short locks at the nape of his neck, unmoving and unblinking, until it felt as though there were two pinpricks seering through his flesh. Corinthian turned towards the eyes, squinting into the dark where the lamp’s illumination didn’t reach, his tinted glasses not aiding his straining gaze. 

Instead of a person, the nightmare found himself leering down at a formation of shuddering feathers and curling claws, a halo of navy framing the creature’s shape. A raven. The bird shifted on dusty feet, wings fluttering and unfolding at its side, revealing a paler plumage at the beings crest. Its eyes remained stationary on Corinthian, gaze peering up at him, lacking all sense of fear or intimidation. The nightmare cocked his head at the raven. Then, he extended an arm towards it, fingers uncurling lazily in the cool air, fingertips reaching out towards azure-stained quills. 

Pitter-patter-pitter-patter.

“Little Nightmare.” 

A deep, rumbling tone came from behind him. Corinthian’s arm stilled instantly, a glacial chill freezing each knotted muscle, his skin seeping with a frigid bitterness that transcended that of the night breeze. His breath caught deep in his throat, chest tightening and lungs constricting uncomfortably, each cell of his being crying out, aching, missing, wanting . A burning bloomed beneath his flesh, making his jaw harden and his brows furrow, each nerve alight with something he couldn’t place. He almost laughed. All these years of existence and he was yet to experience everything being had to offer. The raven stirred in front of him, straightening its magnificent wings and turning from Corinthian, disappearing into the dim overpass, “What have you done?”

The voice spoke out again, somewhere between scorning and cautious, each syllable slow and thoughtful. Corinthian felt the same way he did when he had first heard that voice- the honey-soaked chime of each word commanding him, his knees weakening with the need to fall and grovel and pray. The sensation was uncontrollable, instinctive. He felt his skin quiver and hand shake, each fibre of his being responding to the familiar yet, oh, so distant voice. The nightmare dropped his gaze back to his leather-clad feet, arm retracting back into his chest, fighting the urge to grind his heel further into the dirt. 

“Lord,” Corinthian tried- he really did- to keep his tone even, to stop the stuttering impulses from corrupting the low uttering. Still, the sound came out wavering, unconvincing, and nowhere near as smooth as the voice that had spoken only moments earlier, “Are you here to send me back to the Dreaming?”

“That is where you are supposed to be.” The nightmare bit back a sour chuckle at this, an acidic tang rising up his throat, his tongue heavy and sullen against the roof of his mouth. His gaze flickered between the mounds of dirt at his feet and the pale material of his pants, faltering as the rain stained them with darkened blotches and flecking mud. Corinthian no longer considered the Dreaming his home; even when had resided there, he had never felt entirely accepted. Never good enough. Being in the waking world had changed all that. Here he was better, stronger- a deity amongst mortals, taking what and whom he wanted.

“I won’t go back easy, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Corinthian’s brows furrowed, “I’m not here to send you back, though.”

It was then that Corinthian had the strength to tear his gaze from the ground, dragging wide eyes and firm lips to look up to his creator. And, God, he couldn’t find it in himself to hate at that moment. Not when Dream was only a few paces from him, all long limbs and pale features, drowning robes and plump lips and the nightmare couldn’t breathe. Even if he could take a singular, gasping breath, the lump in his throat would have prevented the air from circulating his veins, leaving them to pump empty, pathetic blood into emptier, shrinking cells. 

His maker was unmoving, a static being on a billowing backdrop, barely shaded by the concrete covering the alley. The amber glow of the lamp created a soft radiance that surrounded his form, only serving to darken his features, his expression entirely unreadable to the nightmare before him. Dream’s arms lay at his sides, half concealed by dark material, but Corinthian could see skin stretching over paled knuckles, hands balled tightly around sunset shadows. The nightmare’s brows furrowed, lips tugging downwards, “Why are you here, then?”

The King’s head titled, darkness drowning his face, “You have been harming the humans you were created to serve.” 

“I wasn’t made for the humans.” Corinthian’s response was sharp, cutting. The words were spat with such venom that his tongue scorched and his throat seared with something acidic and charring and righteous. His hands balled at his side, a weak imitation of the other being’s stance, jaw squaring and head cocking. Dream didn’t stir; stationary as ever, rain still flurrying behind him, “You know that- you made me.”

It was a moment before his creator spoke up again, leaving a stretching silence between them, filled only with the droning downfall and the occasional fluttering of wings in the distance, “And why, do you suppose, were you made?”

“I was made, Lord, for you.”

Dream raised his chin, eyes catching the dim light. Corinthian’s chest ached. “Is that so?”

“It is, Lord.” The nightmare pulled his body from where it had rested flush against the wall, bricks dragging down his back like the slow, scraping of fingernails against skin. He turned his shoulders towards his maker, broad and raised, their forms parallel and close, “I think you know that.”

Again, Dream didn’t respond, allowing the air to settle thick and heavy around them. Corinthian dragged his gaze over the being’s face, eyes still drowning in shadows, downturned lips catching the light, cupid's bow pronounced and curved. He surveyed the messy outline of Dream’s gloomy tresses, watching as the locks ruffled in winter’s frigid gale. The King didn’t bother to brush the straying hair away, leaving the strands to cling to the marble swell of his cheek, “I see your time in the Waking has changed you.”

“I was changed long before leaving the Dreaming,” The nightmare chuckled humorlessly, taking a pace towards Dream,  “Now, I just know where I stand.”

“And where do you stand, Nightmare?” Dream snapped his head up, allowing his features to bathe in the unnatural amber glow, flickering and feeble. His lips were pushed into a thin line, eyes narrowed and gaze glacial and Corinthian couldn’t tell if it was disapproving or contemplative. Or both. The king rolled his shoulders back, settling on his heels to leer down at his creation, hands uncurling at his sides. 

Corinthian took another step towards Dream, gaze flicking between effulgent, sapphire orbs,  “Above mortals,” he took another step, “above terrors, and aspirations,” his creator’s jaw twitched, “above dreams .” 

Dream held Corinthian’s gaze for a moment, flickering and chilling and searching. They seemed to reach deep into the nightmare’s studying stare, past tinted glasses and vacant sockets, penetrating and piercing. Corinthian felt as though his entire being had been stripped bare, exposing each dip and flaw, each blotching freckle and mottled blush. But, he didn’t back down. He held that gaze, tilting his head up at the towering figure before him, unflinching, “You have nothing to say, Lord?”

“You were not made for this.” Dream’s tone was soft, each muted uttering scrawled into the air around him, a melodic coalescence of smooth sounds and silken chimes. Anger flared in Corinthion’s chest, a blooming, knotting, festering hatred that caused his limbs to shake and his jaw clench.

“ No .”

Dream frowned down at him, eyes sloping, lashes casting a soft shadow over high cheekbones, “No?”

“No, I was not made for this.” The exasperation blossomed from his torso, spreading to every nerve, burning his bones and scorching his skin. He was close enough now to his creator that he was sure Dream could feel it radiating from him, like the hurling of tides in a storm, thrashing and flailing up the pale expanse of the shore. He half expected to feel the muted heat of the King’s skin on his own, his own body almost flush against the figure before him, yet it did not come. All he felt was a seeping coolness, so distant, so numb. Corinthian gritted his teeth, “I was created for some selfish need, to be used and left behind. You made that very apparent the last time we spoke.”

“I did not say-”

“You told me I was flawed.” The nightmare cut him off, lips curled down to reveal glistening whites, sharp and grinding. Dream returned to his stillness, eyes trained on his creations every hostile, frenzied movement, observing with a reserved glance, “You told me I couldn’t be what you intended, nor what you wanted. Yet, you still made me hope- all those years, visiting me, naming me your favourite creation.” Corinthian took a gasping breath, a choking cry clawing at his vocal chords. “Each night you came to me, touched me, sculpting me to perfection . Or that’s what you told me. You made me entirely dependent on you. And then you left.”

Dream narrowed his eyes. The nightmare shuddered, “So, no. You don’t get to come here now and tell me why I was created.”

Silence.

Pitter-patter-pitter-patter. 

Dream didn’t move.

“Lord, answer-”

There was barely enough time to get the syllables out, words tumbling clumsily and furiously, before there was a flurry of movement. Corinthian’s back hit the wall behind him, jutting cobbles pounding against his shoulder blades, the breath knocked out of his lungs. A swirling mass of inky material pounced towards his form, two slender hands diving towards the exposed length of his forearms, fingers gripping into firm flesh, nails digging half-moons contusions. A boney knee pressed up against his own, pinning him to the vertical jigsaw of stone behind him, each limb flush to the jagged surface. The nightmare couldn’t couldn’t collect his spiralling thoughts before warm breath brushed against the sloping skin of his cheek, fluttering and  hot and his body quivered at the touch. 

“You think those nights were selfish?” An expel of searing air kissed over his features, and Corinthian became acutely aware of how close his creator was, where skin pressed against skin, where limbs restrained his own. The nightmare squirmed beneath the body over his, a feeble attempt to shake Dream’s iron grip, but it was to no avail. Dream’s fingers clasped his flesh tighter, mottling and bruising and marking, pressing him harder against the biting brick wall, “Each touch, each forming of your being- you believed that was for my self-gratification?”

“It sure does feel that way, doesn’t it?” 

Dream’s lip pulled over his teeth, bringing his face impossibly closer, “You were my first creation- you were flawed of course, you were imperfect.” Corinthian squared his jaw, leering up at his creator. But, he was not met with hostility. He watched as Dream’s features stilled, misty eyes and fluttering lashes, “But you were also beautiful, and passionate, and more than I could ever dream.”

Dream pulled his gaze down then, neck craning so his face aligned with his creation’s jaw, lips ghosting over the crook of his nape. Corinthian’s breath stuttered again, and he stopped moving, stopped trying to break away from the warm press of the King on him. He wouldn’t want to move even if he could. Soft raven locks splayed over the nightmare’s crimson cheeks, each strand feathering to leave a trail of goosebumps. Corinthian had to stop himself from leaning into his creator, from burying his face in the sweet, silken embrace that he had been absent for so long. Dream continued then, lips moving against the column of Corinthian’s neck, barely scraping the tanned skin there.

“But, my appetite was insatiable. I craved a faultless being- one that could surpass anything that came before it,” The nightmare felt Dream’s mouth draw down against his nape, the movement making him flush and shudder,  “When I touched you, when I moulded you in my hands, I was trying to make the perfect being. I would tear you down just to build you up again, making you stronger, better, divine.”

Corinthian couldn’t even begin to form a response at this; his mind was swirling, screaming with confusion and anger and delight and lust. It had been so long since he had even seen his creator- let alone touch him, not the way they were now, bodies so close and so tight. He let out a breathy exhale, feeling Dream crane his neck to bury his head further in his creation’s neck, lips skimming over the hollow of his throat. The King’s grip on his arm loosened, dragging a hand up his forearm, stilling to rest on the other’s bicep. 

“Then, I no longer started visiting you with creation in mind. I would touch you without invention or fabrication, but just to simply touch you. ” Dream uttered, so low Corinthian doubted he wouldn’t have caught it if not for the King’s voice embracing the point below his ear, making his head spin and his heart race and his knees weaken, “Just to feel your life above me, your skin against mine, your words in my ear.” Dream’s mouth moved to the shell of his ear, emphasising his words. If it weren’t for the weight pinning him against the wall, Corinthian was sure his legs would have buckled, “Soon, I did not create at all, but that is not because I got lost in greed.”

“Lord…” The nightmare finally found within him to speak, all quivering syllables and breathy gasps. Dream drew back a little. 

“I wasn’t lying, last time we spoke- you were the closest I have ever got to perfection,” The King’s gaze latched onto Corinthian’s again, though this time the numbing, cold glaze had dissipated from his eyes, leaving only a softer- almost tender- glance. Those swirling blues flickered over the dark rims of his creation’s glasses, studying their inky pools, before bringing a hand between their bodies. Corinthian wasn’t sure why Dream’s digits were skimming over his neck, his jaw, before finally stilling on the spec’s cool frame. Though, something clicked when his creator pinched the thin metal, coaxing the glasses away from their home on the bridge of his nose. Corinthian flinched, “I could no longer sculpt you, perfect you, because you were already there,” Dream pulled the dark frame away, allowing it to hang limply between his fingers. Shame twisted in the most bitter depths of the nightmare, “I believe you always were.”

Without the glasses, Corinthian lowered his gaze, lids heavy and concealing, wanting desperately to bury his face in the palm of his hand. Or in Dream’s. “So, why did you stop visiting? Why did you abandon me?”

“You said it yourself, my Nightmare- you were becoming too dependent on me,” The King allowed the spectacles to fall from his grasp, landing with a dull clang against the dirt-clad cobbles. Corinthian shuddered again. It had been so many years since any being- mortal or otherwise- had witnessed him without the protection of those gloomy frames, had been exposed to what the nightmare really was. Now, with Dream inches from his face, eyes wandering and brows furrowed, he felt all cockiness or anger he had previously possessed slip from him, “I wanted to give you space- allow you to figure out your own path, your own life. Free of my judgement.”

Corinthian swallowed thickly, “But that day, when I came to your throne room, you allowed me to believe that you didn’t care for me-”

“And I am sorry for that,” Dream cut him off, his voice commanding, yet still as caring as it had been moments ago. The king brought his hand- now vacant of those twisted, metal specs- up to cup the swell of Corinthian’s cheek, tempting the nightmare’s gaze back to his. He refused for a few moments, rebelling for what would be the final time against his maker’s wishes, before tilting his chin towards the other. Dream smiled, “I thought it was the best I could have done for you at the time. I could sculpt you no further- but that did not mean you could not shape yourself. I thought it best you became independent, and I know now that I was a fool.”

Pitter-patter-pitter-patter. 

Corinthian’s gaze flickered between two blue, drowning eyes.

Pitter-patter-pitter-patter.

Dream leaned impossibly closer.

Pitter-patter-pitter-

The nightmare crushed his lips into the plump pair in front of him, greedy and pleading, tongue darting out to swipe at the seal of Dream’s mouth. The king gave a surprised ‘ hrmph’, in response, his features still for a moment before relaxing into the touch, reciprocating the desperate movements of his creation. Corinthian pushed against the soft flesh, gasping softly, his thoughts racing with need need need. The taste of Dream bled into his parted lips, seeping into each corner of his mouth and filling up his senses and he couldn’t breathe or see or be. He just lapped his tongue deeper into his creator’s mouth, wanton and distraught, trying desperately to savour the sweet, sacred taste of him. 

When his breathing failed and his chest constricted, Corinthian did not stop. Even when his limbs began to shudder and the wall began to break the skin of his back, he continued to press his lips desperately against Dream’s, lips stinging and swollen and sanctified. The hand that wasn’t pinned against the wall snaked around his maker’s waist, groping mercilessly at swallowing robes and that slight frame, wanting nothing more than to dig his nails into the firm flesh he had once known so well. Instead he settled for drawing Dream closer, hips flush against his own, knees coming to lock between each other. The King let out a low keen. Corinthian grinned against him. 

“Don’t get cocky, my Nightmare,” Dream could barely pull his mouth away long enough to string the words together before his lips were attacked again. Though, he didn’t seem to mind. The hand gripping Corinthian’s forearm dragged further upwards, trailing a path of scorching fire in its wake, pale digits coming to grasp at the nape of his creation’s neck. Fingers twisted into the short, sandy locks there, tugging lightly. Corinthian moaned at the motion. 

Instead of responding to Dream’s haughty remarks, the nightmare pushed his hips up against the firm body above him, once, twice. Lips stilled on his, expelling a warm breath over his skin, before pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. His creator’s lips travelled down his jaw once again, this time with an entirely different intent, before nestling into the hollow beneath his ear. There, a wet tongue darted out to drag against flushed flesh, tasting and taunting, nipping with sharp teeth. Corinthian gasped as the mouth latched onto the skin, sucking what would no doubt be a blossoming bruise to the side of his neck. The nightmare tilted his head back, gasping. 

Just as Corinthian’s head lolled back, useless and swimming, he found that the biting, harshness of the wall didn’t come. Instead, he was greeted by the sensation of a plush pillow. It moulded into his slumping form, limbs heavy as his body suddenly succumbed to gravity, no longer pinned against a vertical surface. Dream’s frame was heavy on him now, legs still slotted between his own, but now used to press him down onto the pliant expanse of a mattress. The King’s movements against his neck didn’t falter once; his mouth still crushed against his skin, causing the nightmare to succumb to a swelling wave of pleasure at the touch. 

“Neat trick,” Corinthian stuttered out. Dream chuckled lowly against his neck, saliva-embraced flesh chilling at the loss of contact. 

“It was no trick,” The King trailed his lips further down, pausing at the spot below his Adam’s apple, “I do not wish to trick you, my Nightmare.”

Corinthian keened as Dream resumed his movements against the hollow of his throat. Of course, his creator hadn’t forgotten that sweet spot of skin, that point at which the nerves were bundled and quivering, waiting to be set alight by the smooth drag of a tongue or the soft scrape of teeth. Dream spent his time here, watching as the ripples of pleasure blossomed from the point, causing his creation’s body to convulse beneath him, all breathy moans and shaking limbs. The hand that was wrapped around the King’s back had long since retreated to grip desperately at the pale sheets, tanned fingers twisting the material as if it were the beads of a rosary. 

When Corinthian became impatient with the slow, yet delicious, kisses on his neck, he keened below his creator’s frame. Dream’s name slipped onto his tongue, the sound escaping his mouth like a prayer, chanting and begging and needing more. He craved Dream. All of his creator, everywhere. He needed his lips over every inch of skin, making up for the years and distance between them. He needed muttered apologies to every cell of his body, for the King to take each limb in those slender hands and mouth at them until each wound closed. He needed to feel whole again, perfected and sculpted with capable grips and soft glances. He twisted under Dream’s grip. 

The King smiled, and his creation could feel the fluttering of lashes below his jaw, “We have all the time in the world.”

With that, Dream moved further down Corinthian’s body, straddling his thighs and dragging his fingertips over his shirt with the lightest of touches. Corinthian felt as though it was their first meeting; his creator was so gentle, cautious. He wanted to make sure the nightmare was comfortable with the touches, that he wouldn’t back away from Dream again. Corinthian heaved his hand away from the sheets, steadying his grip over Dream’s own. Heavy, reassuring. The King brought his head down, pressing his forehead against the flat plane of his creation’s torso, the shirt preventing the skin-to-skin contact that they both so desperately craved.

Corinthian shivered upon the first connection of Dream’s fingers under his shirt. The hands bunched the material up towards his chest, exposing the firm flesh of his stomach, exploring the ridges of hardened muscle. They fanned and splayed, gripping lazily at jutting hip bones, denting the skin with probing nails and sharp exhales. The King’s head remained against his creations chest, though now he had shifted down, trailing kisses and gasps towards Corinthian’s quivering belly. Occasionally, Dream would mumble praises against the skin, utterings of ‘beautiful’ and ‘ perfect’, breath warm and tickling. Corinthian no longer felt the need to cover his eyes. 

“Lord- Dream, ” The nightmare panted, pushing his head into plush pillows, “ please,” His lids squeezed firmly, scrunching his features in pleasure as his creator moved further down his body. “Please, I need-” Dream exhaled over the sparse trail of hair that disappeared below his slacks, “Need you,” lips stretched into a grin against the skin. 

“What do you need from me, little Nightmare?” Dream’s fingers skimmed over the zipper of the bleached trousers, tantalising and taunting and not enough. The pressure, though light and gliding, caused Corinthian to buckle up into his creator’s touch, a freckle-spotted hand diving back to grip onto the sheets. Dream smirked again. Then, the touch came down harder, a pale palm grinding softly over the straining material of the pants, “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to touch me,” The syllables spilled out, thoughts swimming and lips dry, “need your hands,” Dream tugged on the zipper, “need your mouth,” pulling the material down to expose tight boxers and tanned thighs, “need you to sculpt me”, fingers hooked over the waistband, too slow, “need you to bless me.” A hand gripped around his straining length, cooling the scorching, flushed skin.

“Is this what you want?” The King splayed his pale digits over Corinthian’s erection, the marble complexion juxtaposing the angry, blooming hues of the nightmare’s flesh. Corinthian keened, once, twice, bucking his hips into his creator’s hand, searching for the seeping warmth of skin, and the delicious friction that accompanied it. A breath lodged in his throat, his voice already ragged and ruined from the praying and begging and whining. This didn’t last. As soon as Dream moved his fingers, gently dragging up his length, a distressed, imploring, broken whimper escaped the nightmares mouth, long and fragmented, seeping with pleasure. His maker didn’t still his movements at the sound; instead, he pressed his lips into the exposed canvas of his creation’s thighs, surveying the knotted muscles with a probing tongue. Corinthian moaned again.

This only served to spur on the King’s movements, one hand moving faster over Corinthian’s straining cock, the other gripping onto the opposing thigh, pinning it into the mattress. The nightmare thrashed under the touch; it had been so long since he had felt his creator against him like this, touching, kissing, healing. All those mortals he had involved himself with over the years, all the countless nights under another’s sheets, bodies joined and feverish- they were nothing compared to this. Powerless and quivering under the force that had made him, that had brought him out of the darkness and into life, into pleasure and passion and love. Corinthian threw his head back into the mattress, euphoria blooming throughout his entire body, each nerve alight and screaming.

“So beautiful,” Dream’s voice was faint over the pounding in his ears, unrestrained with his praises- so different from the Lord he had once known. Yet, all the touches were so familiar. He could map the way his creator’s boney fingers moved over his cock, soothing and holy, rough and demanding. The nightmare shivered as Dream buried his nose in the flesh of his thighs, breathing more praises into his skin, “so perfect”, a thumb came to drag over the head of his length, “all for me,” more littered kisses over his flesh.

“ For you -” The fingers gripped around his length, squeezing, before drawing down further to cup his balls. Corinthian moaned, an elated pleasure sparking in the pit of his stomach, spreading and twisting through his body. The encompassing, divine sensation pumped through his veins, spreading to each cell in his body, his skin flushing and burning and it was so fucking good. So right. Fingers caressed over every inch of the blushing flesh there, groping and curing the nightmare with heavenly touch. Corinthian could feel the way Dream shifted so his cheek was resting on his thigh, hair tickling gently and breath fanning over skin, each exhale ragged and heavy. The nightmare’s head swam with all the sensations, the feelings dancing and coalescing into a swirling, indistinguishable, empyreal mess of pleasure that made his stomach quiver and hands grip harder into the sheets. 

Dream moved his hands back upwards, attention back on his creation’s weeping length. He dragged a finger over the tip, collecting the beads of precome and spreading them over the flushed surface. Corinthian let out a string of broken whines. The friction elicited a new type of pleasure; a sheen of sweat embraced his skin, seeping into the bunched material of his shirt. Dream twisted his digits then, causing the nightmare’s hand to hurtle towards the King’s head, fingers gripping at the inky locks that splayed over his thigh, twisting the dark strands. Dream let out a breathy whine at the contact, hand tightening around the throbbing erection.

Soon- too soon- heat began to pool in Corinthian’s stomach, a tight, coursing pleasure gripping each organ, making his skin thrum and his body quiver and his blood pound in his ear. He tangled his fingers further into raven locks, tugging Dream’s head from his thigh and up his body. The King let out a surprised choke, but was quickly silenced as Corinthian craned to slam their lips together again, moulding their gasping mouths, the kiss messy and desperate, deep and devout. It was perfect.

The hand on his cock pumped once, twice before a tidal wave of pleasure slammed into Corinthian’s body, washing over each nerve, each cell, leaving him convulsing and shuddering under Dream’s solid form. His trembling fingers came to grip at the broad expanse of his maker’s back, nails scraping and grasping at the dark robes that concealed his body. A long, wrecked whine clawed out of Corinthian’s throat, causing him to pull his lips away from his creators, pressing his forehead to the messy tousles of inky hair. His own knuckles pressed uncomfortably into his cheek but he couldn’t bring himself to care- not when Dream’s hands were stroking him through the ebbing waves of euphoria, drawing out the orgasm until his toes curled and his throat burned, eyelashes fluttering over high cheekbones. 

The King slowed his movements gradually as the pleasure faded, come seeping down the pale ridges of his hands, adorning the quivering expanse of Corinthian’s stomach. Trembling bodies become stationary, one limp form pinned under a slight frame, a tanned hand dragging across his maker’s shoulders to cup a smooth jaw. Dream moved into the touch. The nightmare breathed deeply into Dream’s hair, letting out a shaking exhale, limbs uncurling, tension slipping from each muscle. 

It felt as though his entire being had released a decades old rage, as if he were allowing old wounds to finally heal under the gentle press of plush lips. He no longer held that resentment towards his creator; in fact, it felt as though his chest was brimming- almost combusting- with unrestrained devotion . Adoration . Maybe even love- though, Corinthian wasn’t entirely sure if he could even identify that emotion. For now, he just allowed his breath to return to normal, for his blood to slow in his veins, for Dream to nudge against the dip of his neck. 

When the haze in his mind died down somewhat, he realised that the King hadn’t concerned himself with his own pleasure. Corinthian went to move downwards, eager to please Dream the same way that he had moments ago, but a firm arm looped around his waist, stopping him in his tracks. He shot a questioning glance towards his maker. Dream only gave a lethargic smile in response, drawing Corinthian’s body closer into his, their torsos pressed flush, heat seeping into each other’s skin. The King began sketching lazy patterns into the nightmare’s exposed midriff, fingers counting over each splattered freckle. But he was not creating with those hands. No, Dream had no intention of moulding the being before him- to ‘perfect’ those scattered blotches, to smooth them over with the same even canvas that stretched Corinthian’s form. Instead, he wished that it were his lips brushing those spots, not his fingers, beholding and worshipping every inch of his creation. Corinthian gave a content hum, burying his nose in the King’s hair once again. 

A wave of nostalgia followed the ebbing tides of pleasure, causing a different form of euphoria to wash over him. This one didn’t scorch at his nerves and shake his skin. This one seeped through his bones, washing and cleansing and purifying with a sacred memory of a time long past. Of hope for what will be. With his form wrapped around his creator, shallow breaths mingling in the air between them, chests rising and falling in sync, he felt at home. He felt beautiful. 

There, circled in the strong grip of Dream’s arms, Corinthian did not think of a gliding galaxy, nor of a rolling green landscape. The staining purple flush of Dream’s skin did not make him think of a wilted, seeping daisy- but instead caused a similar, content blush to rise to his own cheeks. He gazed down at the halo of dark hair, watching as two impossibly blue eyes peered back up.

“You’re perfect, my Nightmare,” Dream’s the low rumbling reverberated in his creation’s chest, extending a quiet illumination into every dark corner of his being. He smiled.

“You’re my Corinthian.”