Chapter Text
If the Corinthian’s purpose is to be a dark mirror to humanity – to be the cruelty they kept buttoned up beneath their suits and smiles and polite civility – Hob Gadling’s purpose is to be the best of them.
Even in his dreams, he’s thrilled to be alive. He strolls through a vineyard, inspecting the grapes like he knows what to look for. There’s a guide telling a group of tourists about the history of the land, about the provenance of the grapes and their significance. The tourists are dressed like true citizens of the twenty first century – all zippers and buttons and polyester blends.
Hob’s wearing peasant garb. He’s beginning to realize that he doesn’t fit in with the group, shame flushing his cheeks. It’s a good color on him, the Corinthian decides. He likes the way it darkens Hob’s eyes, which dart around him to see if anyone’s noticed yet.
Is that the theme? the Corinthian wonders. A simple point and laugh doesn’t require his expertise, though – he’s a goddamn archetype. Dream’s finest work. Is this part of his probation? Dealing with Dream’s pet human’s meager little insecurities?
“Boring,” he mutters, but of course Hob hears him.
Hob turns, ashamed that someone's seen him dressed wrong for the era – but the Corinthian is wearing a cool linen suit and a straw hat, an outfit that hasn’t been appropriate since the 1920s. Hob relaxes, which pisses the Corinthian off. He’s meant to be the source of the dread, not a respite from it.
“Not enjoying the tour, are we?” Hob asks.
“Not really,” the Corinthian admits. “I was expecting a bit more melodrama.”
“It’s grapes,” Hob says, half incredulous.
“Plenty of melodrama in grapes,” the Corinthian says. “The lengths some men have gone to for a good drink would astonish you.”
He takes his hat off, wiping the sweat from his brow. This scene is very dull. Dream might dislike the parts of himself he put in the Corinthian, but there’s no denying he does damn good work, and the Corinthian won’t settle for something this typical.
He looks Hob up and down, trying to read him. He might have been the sort of man to only dabble with other men in dark corners, once upon a time, but he’s bolder now. Confident. Even in his nightmares he’s not afraid of looking at the Corinthian appreciatively. There isn’t enough shame in Hob to play off the classic repressed sexuality routine. But that’s alright – the Corinthian is nothing if not creative.
“Is that what you’re looking for?” the Corinthian asks. “A good drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Hob agrees.
“Come with me,” he says, offering his arm. “I know a place.”
Hob pauses, then takes the Corinthian’s arm. It’s a little too casual for the Corinthian’s liking. But there’s no fun in forcing passion – he likes a good, slow seduction. He prefers his victims to want him right up until they see him for what he truly is.
The scene changes – Hob’s subconscious has led them to a familiar tavern in the sixteenth century, full of low lighting and warm bodies bumping into each other. Someone is playing a lute in the corner, and there’s couples swinging each other around. Hob drops the Corinthian’s arm like it burned him, and the Corinthian tries not to take it personally.
This time, Hob is dressed like he just stepped out of the late eighties – a gray suit and slicked back hair. It’s the Corinthian’s turn to be decked out in peasant garb – pale wool roughly sewn together. He sighs. He was far better dressed than this in the actual Middle Ages.
All eyes turn to Hob and the Corinthian, and the music stops playing. Sweat runs down the back of Hob’s neck, and he smells like delicious desperation.
“Boring,” the Corinthian says, once more. He grabs Hob’s arm, tugging him out of the tavern.
“You keep saying that,” Hob says.
“Because it’s beneath me . I don’t do the ‘dressed wrong’, ‘accidentally naked’ or teeth falling out schtick. I’m an artist. I don’t rely on cheap tropes.”
The Corinthian opens the door to a twenty-first century warehouse party in Brooklyn, and Hob is dressed perfectly for the fifteen hundreds, suddenly – a high collar, a pointed beard and softly curling hair.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” the Corinthian complains.
Hob is sweating more now, tugging at his shirt collar with shaking fingers. The Corinthian bats his hands away, making quick work of the laces. The Corinthian can feel Hob’s heart racing underneath his finger tips, beating like a rabbit’s in a trap. Hob’s glancing around at the crowd, waiting for them to turn and look at him. And the dream wants to; it so badly wants to prey on his insecurities and anxiety. But Lord Morpheus sent him to Hob Gadling, and the Corinthian is tired of being upstaged by a cheap trick.
A little push, and the scene changes again. They are in an alley now, the Corinthian still working at the lacing. Hob’s heart rate slows – his focus is on the Corinthian once more. Good. He’s not terrified, but at least he’s paying attention now.
“Is it worse than a bra?” Hob asks, quirking his eyebrows in a way that suggests mischief.
“It is,” the Corinthian replies. “But it’s fun to be able to unwrap my gifts.”
Finally, the shirt is undone – he’s treated with the sight of an undershirt clinging to Hob’s frame with sweat, a hint of chest hair gracing his pecs. The Corinthian leans in, savoring the heat and smell of Hob. He’s used to the taste of fear, but it’s not often he gets to elicit it from someone so timeworn. He traces his fingers down the front of Hob’s undershirt, slowing when he gets to Hob’s stomach. Soft. Vulnerable. Hob shivers, and that’s the cue the Corinthian had been waiting for.
His knife is instantly in his hand, without having to so much as think about it, and then he’s driving it into the soft meat of Hob. Hob gasps, blood running down the front of his shirt. Tears form at the corners of his eyes, and the Corinthian thinks about licking them clean.
And then –
“That’s it?” Hob asks.
The Corinthian pauses. “What?”
“I thought you were supposed to be an artist,” Hob says. Then he’s gone, waking up in his bed.
X
It was an abject failure, the likes of which the first Corinthian had never had. Sure, the first Corinthian had gone overboard a few times, and had gone on a killing spree in the waking world, and tried to kill Dream once or twice, but he’d never failed. The first Corinthian was a rebellious prodigy, not a wash up.
The second Corinthian was starting to worry he might be.
Maybe something had gone wrong in his redesign. Maybe Dream was at fault – he’d thrown in a bit too much humility and made the second Corinthian overthink the basic mechanics of his job. Maybe it was because Hob Gadling was Dream’s ‘friend’, and he’d overcompensated by being a perfectionist. Either way, it was brutally embarrassing.
He was to report to Dream how it went, and he was weighing the pros and cons of lying. He’d rather not join the first Corinthian in the toy chest, but Dream also wasn’t going to accept that he’d bungled the job. There were no easy options.
For once, luck was on his side. Lucienne caught him on his way to the throne room.
“He’s not here,” she reports, clipped and impatient with him as always.
“Oh?” he replies, trying to keep the glee out of his tone.
“He told me to tell you he’ll speak with you upon his return,” she says. Then, “I’m not sure I like the expression on your face.”
“This face? What’s not to love?”
“Do not get into trouble.”
“Me?” he said, unconvincingly naïve.
“Do you know how long he took to redesign you?” Lucienne continues. “Working on you delayed seventeen other projects in the realm. If he has to start over –”
“ - I’m very attached to my continued existence, thank you,” the Corinthian says. “Thank you for the heads up.”
And like that, he’s off, all too aware of Lucienne’s stare burning a hole into his back.
In terms of bad things the past Corinthian did, this is hardly worth mentioning. He’s doing his job, technically. In a covering his ass sort of way, but Lord Morpheus told him to visit Hob Gadling’s dreams. Lord Morpheus hadn’t said only once , so it could be that the Corinthian had misunderstood him. Misunderstandings happen, after all. If anything, it was Dream’s fault for not being clearer with his instructions. Communication had never been his strong suit.
This time, the Corinthian would get it right.
He picked the scene very carefully – a stretch of Floridian coastline that was once popular with men who cruised, before the first Corinthian picked one or two or six of them off. It was a humid summer night, the air heavy with the promise of future rain. Perfect. He sat in the long reeds, a safe distance from the crushing waves on the shore.
Dreamers didn’t often remember him. They remembered his mouth eyes and they remembered dying; that was enough. He hated recurring nightmares – routine really didn’t suit him. He was far better as a flash in the pan, a one-off that scarred someone for life. Lord Morpheus might have taken the Corinthian’s essence, whisked it with a fork and then pan fried him, but he was still one of the greats.
He repeats that to himself like a mantra as he waits for Hob Gadling – who may be approaching the status of ancient , but is still fundamentally a human man. A weak, corruptible human man, if the Corinthian digs into him the right way.
He can hear the whisper of the grass against Hob’s legs. He doesn’t turn to look, but Hob’s soft inhale gives away the moment he spots the Corinthian.
“Hello,” Hob says, all quiet confidence as he closes the distance.
He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt this time, his face clean shaven and his hair curling just under his ears. Lord Morpheus’s friend. An innuendo, maybe? Hob’s appealing enough, but Dream doesn’t carry himself like someone getting laid regularly.
“Evening, handsome,” the Corinthian says. “What brings you out here?”
“I'm not sure. I don’t really come to places like this anymore,” Hob says, and then sits down next to the Corinthian.
Fine – if he wants conversation, the Corinthian can give him conversation. “Why not?”
“It’s safe to meet men in public, now,” Hob continues. “Or on the apps, although I haven’t tried them yet. It all happened so fast, you know? One moment everyone was dying of AIDS and the next thing you know, everyone was online and available constantly.”
The Corinthian hums in agreement. “Quick, cheap and easy. Like fast food.”
“I try not to fight progress,” Hob muses. “But – if I’m honest, I miss moments like this.”
Hob’s playing with a piece of the tall grass, wrapping it around a thick, calloused finger. Is it calloused in the waking world, too? He’s hardly doing manual labor these days – maybe it’s just a memory, what he believes his hands should always look like.
“Finding yourself alone with someone beautiful, and not being sure quite what to expect,” Hob continues. “Should I be aroused, or afraid?”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive,” the Corinthian replies. He hasn’t had a chance to really talk to his victims since he was remade, but the mechanics of flirtation are coming back to him now. “But the choice is yours.”
Hob reaches for his face. For a moment, the Corinthian wonders if Hob will move to take off his sunglasses, but instead Hob runs his thumb down the Corinthian’s jaw.
No – that’s too gentle. That’s not how this dream is meant to go.
The Corinthian turns his face into Hob’s hand and sucks the thumb into his mouth. It’s rough on his tongue, and he shivers involuntarily. Hob may not be his usual type, but there’s something hungry in him that the Corinthian is excited to taste.
And it seems Hob will give him the chance to. It’s all over his face, then – how badly he wants this, wants to touch and be touched in a lonely place on a dark summer night. He pulls his thumb out of the Corinthian’s mouth, and the Corinthian has to fight the urge to chase it, his teeth almost clamping down. Hell, maybe he will bite off Hob’s fingers. That’s what he’s meant to do, after all.
But Hob is pulling the Corinthian onto his lap, broad hands running over his hips and underneath his t-shirt, up his waist. The Corinthian puts his hands on Hob’s chest, grateful there’s no endless laces this time.
He looks like a human man because he is one, but when the Corinthian slips his tongue in Hob’s mouth, he can taste the possibility of eternity that Hob has been given. Somewhere, maybe deep in Hob’s molars, is a trace of the Endless – of Dream’s favor and Death’s gift. He grinds their hips together and it feels impossibly good, Hob’s thick cock begging to escape his jeans.
Hob’s got the Corinthian’s shirt half pulled off, so the Corinthian finishes the job. Hob’s mouth is on his nipples in seconds, all teeth and stubble rubbing against bare skin. The Corinthian hisses out a sigh, grabbing Hob by his hair to tug his head back.
The Corinthian runs a thumb along Hob’s brow, savoring the feeling of his eye under his eyelid, firm and juicy and unaware of what’s to come. “I’ve been thinking about those dark, pretty eyes of yours all day, Hob Gadling.”
Hob pauses, his head cocked in confusion. “Do I know you?”
“After this, you certainly will,” the Corinthian says, slipping off his sunglasses.
It’s a blur after that, as nightmares often are. The Corinthian takes one of Hob’s eyes and is determined to appreciate it for the delicacy it is, but he’s far too hungry for his own good – he swallows it whole. As soon as it’s gone, he wants its twin, but Hob Gadling has taken off.
He’s running, then – chasing a half blinded and frantic prey. The scent of desperation and pain is clear on the wind, carried with the promise of thunder in the distance. Hob gets further than the Corinthian would have liked. He’s moving too slowly now, the gravity of nightmares working against him and in the Corinthian’s favor. It’s still satisfying when the Corinthian jumps him, flinging both their bodies across the sand. He thinks of killing Hob now – his throat is bare and vulnerable, his pulse hammering under the Corinthian’s fingers.
But he wants that eye. The Corinthian also wants Hob to see him taking the eye. He flips Hob over, trapping him between the Corinthian’s thighs. Hob’s still hard, to the Corinthian’s surprise. He is too. Hob thrashes against him and it’s even better then, a trapped animal in a butcher’s grasp. The Corinthian is so hard it hurts, his knife resting against Hob’s chest, glistening with sweat in the low moonlight.
“I can’t die,” Hob gasps out.
“You can here,” the Corinthian promises. He traces a lazy ‘C’ with his knife, then commits to carving it in place. Hob tries to buck him off, and the Corinthian shivers at the pressure.
He’s distracted, and Hob takes advantage – the knife’s in his hand and then he’s stabbing the Corinthian, running him through his guts.
Ouch.
“Oh, feisty,” the Corinthian gasps out, and Hob’s sitting up underneath him now. He’s not writhing towards freedom, but keeping the Corinthian close, a shrike admiring his meal. It’s a good look on him. The Corinthian leans forward with the intention of biting, but Hob catches his mouth and then they’re kissing. He’s got a hand in Hob’s hair and another on his jaw. When his fingers reach up for Hob’s other eye, Hob twists the knife.
“I thought that’s what you wanted, love,” Hob murmurs. He’s so warm. The Corinthian can’t help but rock against him, listening to Hob’s quiet grunts. He’s breathing hard, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s from arousal or exertion.
He makes another half hearted grab at Hob’s eye, and then Hob shoves him back. He’s on top of the Corinthian a moment later, and the Corinthian lets Hob pin him. He could win if he wanted to, but he finds himself enjoying the weight and the searing pain in his stomach and Hob’s thigh rubbing against his cock. The world around them shrinks to nothing, until the only real thing in the universe is the way Hob’s making his body feel right now.
He grips Hob’s shirt, looking up at the hole where his eye once was. Hob’s still ruggedly handsome, still the sort of man Dream would indulge with immortality, but the Corinthian finds he misses the second dark glimmer.
“You’re lucky you’re dreaming,” the Corinthian grinds out, Hob rubbing him hard enough that he wonders if he’ll get to come before he gets road rash. “If we were in the Waking, I’d cut both your eyes out and keep them forever in a glass jar.”
“You’re a cruel thing, aren’t you?” Hob murmurs, and the Corinthian’s closer to climax still.
“I’ll hurt you like no one’s ever been hurt before.”
“Promises, promises,” Hob says. His voice is strained, so the Corinthian shifts his leg to return the favor. Hob grunts, a sound low in his throat, and the Corinthian gets to watch Hob’s bloodied face as he tips over the edge.
It takes him a second to realize what that means for him. Hob’s shirt slips from between his fingers and the Corinthian grasps at nothing. That heavenly pressure is gone from between his legs, and his knife falls flat against his stomach.
“Selfish bastard,” he curses.
He gets a hand down his jeans and jerks himself to completion, coming hard and coming down harder. He’s wet with blood and come, the latter rapidly cooling. He pulls the knife out just as the promised rain begins to fall, aware he’s failed. Again.