The Corinthian had flashes of memory that felt old and creased around the edges, sepia-toned. These belonged to his predecessor; to the old, wandering, wayward Corinthian. The one the Dream King had labelled “imperfect.” Just three syllables to sum up centuries of existence. The new Corinthian felt a little affronted on his ancestor’s behalf. Imperfect he may have been, but he was pretty sure he recalled being other things as well: an artist, and a work of art, and pretty damn high on the Dream King’s creative resumé.
He was just a newborn nightmare, but thanks to his ancestral Corinthian, he was already imbued with a kind of race memory that made him feel more than the sum of his parts. He had job experience. He had a legacy. He had habits, and a favourite liquor. He had a whole list of things he couldn’t wait to try for the first time, again, only this time, he’d do them better. Everything would be better, and this time his master would find no reason to make him into nothing again. Existence was such a curious sensation, with his new fingers, new face and new wriggling toes. It would be a shame to have to unmake it all again.
The first thing he thought when he came into being, standing on the beaches of the Dreaming with the shifting sand under foot, was Who am I? What am I? How shall I perceive the world? How shall I be? What eyes shall I see with? The second thing he thought was, Hmmm. Eyes. The Dream King had eyes like eclipses, and he told the Corinthian his name, and the name told him how he should look at the world. The sand shifted in the Dream King’s breeze, running cool and tickling between the Corinthian’s ten new toes. He dimly recalled having been here before, a lifetime or so ago, in an older, less perfect form. It was nice to be perfect. He met his maker’s eyes, and his grin peeled his face open like a wound.
An identity. Good. Something to anchor his existence by, and prevent him from flying away with the sand. Because that was what had gone wrong before, wasn't it? He rifled through the secondhand thoughts in his brain. Not having an anchor, a purpose, a master, he had forgotten just exactly who he was while the Dream King had been gone. For the denizens of the Dreaming, it was as though the moon had vanished from its orbit, or the ocean had suddenly fallen as silent and still as a fishpond.
So, rather than stay in the Dreaming and wring his hands, being half a dream, a dream without Dream, the old Corinthian had decided to reclaim his existence for himself. At first, he had just wandered, with the vague idea that went he reached the boundaries of the Dreaming, Morpheus would appear before him like a sapling-thin schoolmaster and send him home with an imperial flick of his wrist. But he hadn’t. The Corinthian had been able to stroll into the waking world without contest. It was so easy, it made him feel giddy with the compulsive wrongness of it all, like an outwardly attentive student masturbating furiously under the school desk. He’d been a dream about that once. Or parts of him had.
The new Corinthian remembered the waking world as a hard, angular place with solid edges. Time flowed stodgily forward. Large objects stayed imposingly still. Walking in the waking world, he half-recalled, was like being trapped forever in some tedious board game, with a rule book as thick as the Bible that no one could quite understand. Long periods of sameness, waiting to throw the right number to even get started. People getting cranky at each other because Life just took so damn long, and they were sure they had better things to do somewhere. Fights breaking out sporadically over the interpretation of the rules. Everyone suspecting everyone else of cheating somehow.
It had taken some getting used to. But all the time, the giddy thrill and free-fall sensation of being unaware of Morpheus in the back of his mind remained. He didn't like the thought of crawling home to the Dreaming voluntarily, like a spanked dog. Tedious though waking existence was, it did have a certain glamour, like a gaudy sun on a winter's day. Despite the solid edges, the human-inhabited parts of the world were designed especially for someone of his particular size and shape, and he found that delightfully decadent. He was certainly the right shape for all the good parts, and compliments to Lord Shaper for that. He found things there he liked far better than their shades in the Dreaming. Jacuzzis, for example. Bourbon. Boys. Waiters in restaurants who called him "sir." The way people skittered before his smile like sheep before a wolf, cementing his new identity as something terrible in his own right, and not just a servant of the Dream King. It made his blood sing. He went to the zoo to pluck wolf-eyes, and he knew that he could be like them. He started hunting. Everything in the waking world was wetter, messier, colder and harder to wash out, but somehow all the more satisfying for it.
He had had trouble coming to terms with the worrying quality of termination in the waking world. It was possible to break things there; to make them, and then break them. In the Dreaming, all the making and breaking had been the job of the Dream King. Nightmares like the Corinthian could bend and manipulate, but they couldn’t start or finish. The old Corinthian could stick his fingers in some sweet boy’s dream, and twist it how he wanted it, but nothing remained. No matter how tightly the Corinthian gripped them in their sleep, in the morning, they shrugged him off with the covers. Everything he had moved would twang back into place like elastic. They would wake up in a sweaty fug of fear, alone in white sheets, sometimes with semen drying into scales on their stomach, and then they would wash it all off with the residue of dream-blood in the shower. They would wipe the steam from the mirror, and look into their living eyes and shudder. Or sometimes they would smile. Sometimes they liked it. Either way, it made no difference to the Corinthian. Objective reality in the Dreaming was as meaningless a concept as the colour of a thought in the waking world. Everything was a dream to him. Or maybe nothing was a dream. Either way, it made no difference.
Not so here. Same boy, same act, but the Corinthian couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be shaken off and woken up from. They stayed where they were left, and they would be found hours later, laid out like an art installation, gaudy with red paint. Art, or a lesson in anatomy, exposed as nothing more than the sum of their blood and tissue. This is what an honest nightmare does, the Corinthian dimly remembered thinking. Shows people the truth of what’s inside them. About who they really are. What could be more terrifying? Damn, I’m good at my job.
The re-born Corinthian had one memory that stood out stark in his mind, like blood on pure snow, and it summed up for him his old imperfections, his inability to grasp, and to show, and to teach. Really, it had been too bad on the boy. The first Corinthian had met him a club in Palm Beach, winding his way to the bar, drawn by the throng of flesh there. The boy’s eyes had been wide as tar pits, and just as dark. You could drown in those eyes, the Corinthian had thought. You could wallow in them.
He had so nearly overlooked him. The boy had been wearing sunglasses, and the Corinthian had gone to push right past him, still on the hunt. Their hip bones had bumped, and the boy gave a jump like he’d been shocked. He slipped off his glasses to look the Corinthian up and down.
”Hi,” The boy had said, the very picture of edible. He knew he was too, and he hooked the arm of his shades over his teeth and bit down, all coy. “You always wear those inside?” He gestured to the Corinthian’s own shades.
Always." The Corinthian replied.
"Yeah, me too," The boy said, although he'd made himself a liar already by taking them off. The Corinthian determined to make no such mistake. The boy looked him up and down with a pleasing lack of subtly, and seemed to give a little mental shrug. Not bad, it said. Not great, but not bad. He'll do. The Corinthian knew he looked craggy and pale, and a few years older than the boy's twenty-odd, but he was confident of his charisma. He practised it in front of the mirror.
"You going to the bar?" The boy asked him.
"Uh-huh."
"Mine's a Bud." He gave a brilliant smile, and slid his shades out of his mouth with an air of triumph. The Corinthian heard them scraping over his tongue with slow purpose, leaving a string of saliva hanging briefly from the arm. The boy wiped them on his shirt and slipped them back on top of his head. The Corinthian gestured with a hand. After you.
They slid sideways together through the crowd, and watched each other move. The boy pressed against him once or twice, feigning nonchalance. He had a grace to him, ducking through the people with an easy twist of his hips. His skin was stubble-rough, and had a musky, dark scent to it. The Corinthian kept his face turned carefully ahead, enjoying the sensation of the boy's eyes roaming up and down him, knowing he would look away if he looked straight at him. Waking humans were coy like that. But impressing them was always easy. The very stuff he was made of was impressive to them. He barely even had to try.
"You’re like ants." He remarked conversationally. "The whole of existence stretches out around you, but it's just too big for you to see. I can show you. And you could show me. I'll swap you. Perspective is everything." He was confident the club noise would drown him out, but it excited him to say these things out loud. Half threat, half promise. The boy leaned in close to his ear, and shouted;
"What did you say?" They had stopped dead against the backs of a densely packed crowd, five deep to the bar.
"I said, do you wanna split? Somewhere quieter? We could wait hours for a drink here." The boy looked to the bar, and back to the Corinthian again, and dithered. For a moment, the Corinthian thought he was bound to refuse. He was young, and the young ones always wanted noise and dance and people pressed all around. Not that the Corinthian was averse to that himself, but his throat was clamouring for a whisky, and he didn't want to wait. Besides, he was feeling tall with his power tonight, and he wanted to test it out. The boy's scent would go better with the fresh night air. That, and he had a group of friends with him here, and their interested eyes had followed his progress to the bar. A few of them had their eyes on him now, he knew. Leaning in to each other and discussing him. Smiles and insinuations. They grated on the edge of his consciousness. He could really do without them. The boy gave another mental shrug, visibly thinking, what the hell.
"Sure." He said. "Just let me go tell my friends, okay? I'll meet you by the door.
"Okay," The Corinthian beamed, his smile like a living thing itself. The boy's return smile drifted into a slight frown, disquieted because he couldn't see the Corinthian's eyes. Still. He silenced all doubts by snapping his own shades back down off the top of his head, and, safe behind them, he slid off to talk to his friends.
"I know a little place," The Corinthian told him, when the night air hit their skin. It was busy outside too, and the seafront was swarming with warm tourists. "Not far. You'll get your Bud." The boy laughed. In the clear air, he seemed entirely at ease, or maybe he was just trying to normalise the situation to still any doubts in his brain. As they walked, he talked, and carried on talking as they reached the little bar the Corinthian knew.
The Corinthian brought them both bourbons, not fancying Budweiser kisses later on, and the boy didn't complain. They settled on the chairs outside, and the Corinthian was careful to mould the lines around his mouth into an interested shape to make up for the lack of eye contact. The boy seemed unperturbed. He said his name was Mark. He was an English lit major. He liked poems, and parties, and guys with fat wallets. He wanted to be a writer, a story teller. The Corinthian approved. Ambition was good. Self-knowledge was good. I am. I like. I want. All these were anchors for the self.
"What about you?" The kid had asked eventually, when the bourbon made his tongue feel warm and sleepy.
"What about me?" The Corinthian shifted in his seat, and wiggled closer. It was an invitation to be interested in him, and the boy took it as such.
"I don't even know your name," He said.
"James." The Corinthian had met a kid at the railway station named James. He liked it.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a teacher."
"No shit? What do you teach?" The Corinthian sipped his drink, jangled his ice and thought about this for a moment.
"Biology," He said eventually, with a suggestive hitch of his eyebrow. Mark laughed.
"Yeah?"
"And art."
"That's an unusual mix."
"I'm an unusual guy." The Corinthian beamed with this pronouncement. He really was feeling good with himself tonight. His smile was like a light source. Mark looked a little dazzled.
"I can see that," He said, and gave him that appraising look again. It was unashamedly warmer this time. He's done this a few times before, the Corinthian thought. If I seem reluctant, maybe he'll try to play me. The boy talked with a glib confidence too old for his twenty-odd years, but it was all a mask. The Corinthian knew if things took an unexpected turn, he would flounder. Still, no need to make things complicated at this point. The bourbon was good, and the warm night sea was rocking the city to sleep.
"You don't teach at PBA, do you?"
"No,"
"Cool. 'Cause otherwise, you know... I go there. So..."
"So, what?"
"So, you really shouldn't be picking up your own students in bars."
The Corinthian laughed, half at the boy's frank admission that he was being picked up, and half because he'd forgotten about all the strange rules and conventions they had in the waking world. They were like invisible walls he kept walking into. In the Dreaming, there was only one convention for behaviour: If you wanted to, and could, then you did. That, and there were a few actual invisible walls.
"You teach art?" Nod. "Are you an artist?"
"I like to think so."
"You paint?"
"I sculpt." And I'm the King of Dreams, he wanted to add with a mischievous chuckle, but superstition forbade him. Gone though Morpheus was, he had a nasty habit of coming when his name was called in just the right way. The Corinthian had no intention of saying it the right way, but it would be just like Lord Shaper to mishear and turn up anyway. He shifted position, and was pleased to note Mark shifted without thinking to mimic him.
"What do you sculpt?"
"The human form." The boy made an impressed little noise.
"I'd like to see some of your work."
"I'd like that too." Silence. Sip. The Corinthian could tell the kid only half-believed his lofty claims to be a teacher, and what's more, the kid knew that he could tell, but he was playing the game, none the less. He kind of liked the idea the Corinthian was trying to impress him. It made him feel special, that he was worth the work of a lie to impress. He does this a lot, the Corinthian realised, and he always hopes he'll meet someone special. Never turns down a chance, just in case they're the One.
"How did you get to be a teacher?" The kid was asking, trying him out for truth, or the strength of his lie.
"I had something to share. Something to give to the world. You know?"
The boy nodded. He didn't know at all, but the Corinthian was enchanted by his acquiescence. He liked when things went smooth. Dreaming smooth. The waking world could be so bumpy and rough at times. He talked for a while, inconsequentially, to keep the kid feeling normal and happy, and he told jokes to make him laugh and keep him warm inside, just like the bourbon.
When the talk died down, and they both felt soft and boneless enough to share a comfortable silence, the Corinthian leaned over the table and sucked a lazy kiss from the boy’s lips. The boy pulled away quite quickly, reclaiming his teeth and tongue with a small noise of surprise. The intensity of the Corinthian had caught him off-guard, but he was not quick enough to discourage the Corinthian from catching hold of his jaw and kissing him again. The boy fumbled with a hand up his lean back, over his neck, and around the hook of his ear, to grapple at his sunglasses. The Corinthian caught his hand and kissed it, and placed it firmly back in Mark’s lap.
"Dude, don't you have eyes?" Mark asked, bemusement in his own. He had pocketed his own shades as soon as they'd stepped outside. The Corinthian laughed his lightest, most musical laugh.
"'Course I do. Hold up fingers." The boy dutifully held up three.
"Seventeen." The Corinthian said. "See?" Mark giggled through fingers sticky with spilt bourbon.
"Take 'em off." He exhorted. "I'm starting to think you got cat's eyes, or something." The Corinthian slipped off his shades with a smile. Mark leaned in and studied him closely, his own wide, dark eyes bleary with drink.
"Aww." He said. "You got nice eyes. What do you want to hide them for?"
"I'm a visionary," The Corinthian answered, slightly nonsensically, but Mark laughed anyway. He was right, as well. The Corinthian did have nice eyes. He had got them from his namesake at the railway station, and they were a fetching shade of cobalt blue.
The two shared a silence, hot with anticipation. They both knew now they were getting laid tonight, and the heat of this knowledge was a luxury, not to be rushed. For all the lengthy, linear nature of this world, the Corinthian reflected, sometimes the space between Wanting and Having could really work out well.
So, they drank some more, and they stumbled hand in hand back to the Corinthian's motel room, giggling over the inane jokes they made up as they walked. The motel room was large, expensive and awful, just how the Corinthian liked it. He was very much in tune with the glamour of being ridiculously over-extravagant with money. He'd tried on a few new identities since he'd lost his old one, but found flashy, rich and cheap suited him best. Broad brushstrokes, so unlike the delicate, intricate work of the Dreaming. It was all part of severing himself from wanting, and looking for, Morpheus.
Once inside, they pulled apart for a moment, and looked at each other. Mark’s shades were hooked and skewed in the neck of his shirt, his black hair mussed, his breath coming quickly. His pupils were wide and dark with excitement. The Corinthian swooped across the space between them, quick as a diving hawk, and caught the boy in his arms. He swung him around, and then pulled him in and kissed him squarely on his laughing mouth. It was a flamboyant, romantic gesture he had borrowed from an episode of Sunset Beach.
But their kiss was hungry and noisy, and complete with all the features missing from daytime soaps; the saliva, and the smacking noises. The Corinthian pressed his hand to the boy’s jaw, and pursued his tongue with his teeth for a while. The boy pressed back, floundering a little, doing his best to keep up, but the Corinthian was swallowing his breath and showing him just a little bit of that dream-strength that could suck his tongue right out if he felt so inclined.
The Corinthian pressed himself close, his hand squeezed between their bodies, slipping under the boy’s shirt and tracing up his rib cage. The boy jumped a bit. The Corinthian’s hands were cold. The Corinthian released his jaw for long enough to let him have a bit of breath, and noted with proud pleasure how his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright. Without prompting, the boy leaned in and kissed him on the smile, the kiss becoming urgent when the Corinthian dropped his hand to the boy’s crotch and pressed it there. They stayed that way for a moment, lip-locked, the boy pushing his hips to the Corinthian’s hand, then the Corinthian pulled away. He had a game in mind.
"I got a Jacuzzi." He announced. Not strictly true; what he actually had was a cracked old bathtub with a button for bubbles and just about room for two, but it was all he needed. He loved the cracks and stains. They had an air of authenticity, and added to the whole god-awful, over-priced ambience of the motel room. Mark looked at his face closely, and the Corinthian moulded his cheekbones to look blameless and pure. The boy would rather go slower, he knew, but he was also rock hard against the denim of his jeans, and hot with excitement. That, and he was anxious to oblige.
The Corinthian grinned secret smiles to himself. It was an apt phrase. They used to say it in London, years ago. He'd heard it when his master had taken him walking there, in amongst the wet and narrow Ripper-haunted streets. “He's an obliging boy”, the hawks with bad teeth would say, and point at some doe-eyed, beguiling little thing in the shadows. They meant he was up for rent, but it summed up their whole demeanour perfectly. They were always obliging; you could bend them anyway you pleased and they wouldn't mind, and they'd even wipe your cock clean for you after with a smile.
Thinking of Morpheus was an unexpected tug on his heart - or rather the part of his heart the Dream King was missing from - and the Corinthian pushed him angrily out of his mind. It was enough to know Mark was an obliging boy, and he did oblige, not wanting to look overwhelmed or inexperienced. He grinned, and said;
"Cool." And he let the Corinthian kiss his hand and lead him to the bathroom.
He stuck the rusting plug into the greasy tub, and turned the hot tap on as far as it would go. Water drummed on the porcelain like music in his ears, and he turned back to Mark with a languid smile. The bathroom was white-tiled and glorious and awful, with glorious, awful mould creeping around the taps. An intoxicating smell of damp pervaded. Mark seemed to like it a little less than the Corinthian did. He looked all around him, tactfully without comment, but his gaze grew warm and approving when it settled on the Corinthian. The stark white bathroom and the stark white nightmare complimented each other. The whole room seemed to pool in the dark shadows of his shades. The Corinthian slipped them off again to comfort him, aware his borrowed eyes were watering a little in the naked light. He moved in towards Mark again, and kissed him as an excuse to close his eyes before he noticed.
All the same, a wet tear ran down his cheek and pearled against Mark’s as they pressed together. Mark pulled away with a small, questioning noise, and touched his finger softly to the Corinthian’s cheek. In answer, the Corinthian reached up and enfolded the boy’s finger in his hand. He held the tip to his mouth and kissed it softly, reassuringly. Mark smiled, but his frown didn’t fade. He made no comment, however, and when the Corinthian kissed him again, the press of his lips was harder, more wanting than it had been before.
The Corinthian broke the kiss long enough to peel the boy’s shirt off over his head, running a hand over his lean, tan stomach, brushing the fuzz of hair there with his fingertips. He hooked two fingers over the edge of his jeans, and pulled him in close again, pressing his crotch to his own, savouring the rough scrape of denim against straining denim. The running water rang in his ears.
After a time, Mark pulled back, breathless, and said, "Your bath is overflowing." The Corinthian moved over to silence the taps, the front of his body tingling from the sudden absence of Mark there. He turned back to the boy, smiling, and stripped off his own shirt slowly to let him see, knowing how lean and wiry the Dream King had made him. Mark watched him with wide, approving eyes. The Corinthian unhooked the button of his jeans, unzipped his fly and kicked off his pants. He somehow made the awkward motion seem as graceful as a ballet.
He settled himself on the edge of the bathtub, and indicated with a gesture that Mark should get naked too. Your turn. Mark complied, his hands fumbling with eager nerves. He stripped and stood there, blushing a little at the Corinthian’s unwavering, expressionless gaze. His cock rose defiant from a fuzz of dark pubic hair, and he flushed when the Corinthian’s face came to life like a sunrise, beaming his rich, warm approval. He held out his arms, and Mark went to him. He let himself be gathered up, and kissed, and perched next to the Corinthian on the edge of the tub.
They spent a few moments becoming accustomed to each other’s nakedness, kissing long and careful kisses, and letting their hands wander. The Corinthian’s cold fingers traced down the knobbles of his spine, over his ass, across his thighs, making him squirm, always stopping just short of his most sensitive areas. The boy was trembling slightly. The Corinthian held him at arms length, studying him carefully, his arms on his biceps, squeezing hard enough to almost hurt.
"Are you cold?" He asked, with a wicked grin.
"God, no." The boy answered. The Corinthian's grin widened.
“All the same… Wanna warm up?” He nodded at the steaming tub. Mark paused a moment, giving him a bemused look. He wasn’t afraid, but the confidence of the Corinthian was so different from the uncertain fumbles and negotiations he had experienced before, it kept taking him unawares. The sheer force of his personality was overwhelming. The Corinthian gave his ass a friendly squeeze, favoured him with one of those thigh-loosening grins, and said,
“C’mon.” Mark let him take his hand and help him into the tub. Water slopped onto the linoleum as the Corinthian scrambled in after him, sending warm waves sloshing up both their chests. It was the perfect size, more or less, just small enough for elbows to bang awkwardly and for limbs to intertwine. The natural grease of the bathtub gave the water a slick and pliant quality. They sat face to face, legs wrapped in each other, and slid their hands easily over each other’s skin, learning shapes and finding paths, slippery and fluid like the Dreaming’s reality.
They wrestled for a while, hands twisting like fishes, tussling for a purchase, exchanging wet kisses with mouths full of water, until, with the Corinthian being stronger, and Mark being more obliging, the nightmare began to get on top. He was pushing hard, leaning, scrabbling to catch the boy’s tongue, his teeth scraping on the boy’s lips, lifting the boy’s hips to have him sat more or less on his lap, until the Corinthian’s knees gave way slickly, and they both went under with a sploosh. For a moment, they wallowed like a pair of whales, until the Corinthian found his knees again and sat up. He fumbled in the water to catch hold of Mark and pull him up too. They sat face to face on their haunches again, breathless and laughing.
“Sorry,” The Corinthian said, as the situation seemed to demand it. Mark spat warm water from his mouth and grinned.
“S’okay.” He said. “But I’m not sure that’s gonna work.” I’m a genius, the Corinthian thought to himself, as he reached out of the bath, dripping water fatly on the tiles, and retrieved his discarded shirt from the floor. It was already soaked with splashes, and he dipped it in the water and twisted it into a rope shape, noting Mark’s cautious but interested look as he did so. He slid a long-toed foot between Mark’s legs and felt his twitching hardness there.
“Lie back again,” He said, and the boy complied, wriggling himself comfortably full length. The Corinthian straddled him, baring his weight on his knees on either side of the boy’s body, so as not to push him under again.
“Catch hold of the taps.” He said. Mark could see what he had in mind, and with the Corinthian’s taut-muscled thigh pressed against his cock, he wasn’t about to argue. He leaned his arms back behind his head and folded his fingers around the brass taps. The Corinthian leaned over him and looped the shirt around the tap and around his wrists. Mark craned his neck up and licked warm droplets of water off the Corinthian’s chest, reaching for a nipple, but the Corinthian pulled his knot tight and sat back up, with a reproving, mocking smile. He was determined to take his time and survey his handy work. Mark wriggled obligingly, with his arms held firmly in place and his head rested on his arms, safely above water level.
“’Kay?” The Corinthian enquired, liking the pleased little wiggle of Mark’s hips in the water against him. The boy nodded. The Corinthian shimmied his way backwards down the bath until his back was up against the far end, and Mark’s feet were brushing at his hipbones. He took one foot in each hand, and tucked them around him, spreading the boy’s legs apart. He leaned forward, fumbling in the water until he caught hold of the boy’s cock, slippery like soap, and ran his hand up its warm, wet length.
"Kay?" He asked again, just to see Mark struggle to talk around the tight pleasure in his chest and the catch in his breath.
"Uh-huh." He managed.
The Corinthian dipped his head and took in his cock along with a mouthful of water, letting the boy’s wet legs bend at the knees and arch up his back with pleasure. He closed his hand around the shaft, rubbing with one rough thumb, and raised his head for a breath and a look at his neatly wrapped package. He met the boy’s eyes, half-lidded with wanting, and narrowed his own. No rush. He slipped his free hand under Mark’s backside and lifted, pushing his own knees under so the boy was sitting on his lap with the tip of his cock protruding like a rock above the water.
The Corinthian entertained himself for a moment rubbing his other thumb against the boy’s asshole, finding just the right spot to make his foot spasm frantically. Losing it. Finding it. The boy moaned some wordless expletive, some plea or threat, to just for God’s sake get down to it. Indolent as a cat, the Corinthian dipped his head again, took the tip of his cock in his teeth, and slipped his head under again. The sound of boy’s moan was lost as the water flowed into the Corinthian’s ears. He slid his lips up again, grating his teeth gently against the shaft, bringing his nostrils above the water again for a breath and then down again. Repeat to close, the Corinthian thought wryly to himself, moving his free hand round to press on the boy’s hip and stop him bucking water right up his nose. He kept his rhythm, sliding up and down once for each breath, teasing with his teeth, his own erection a pressing matter against Mark’s backside. When he caught himself rocking, he stopped and straightened up, huffing water from his nostrils like a seal. Gave Mark that mocking little smile again. He was so warm and wet he could melt with it.
He caught hold of Mark by the calves, and squeezed, feeling the muscles there twitch with his fingers, and he lifted his legs and rested his ankles on his shoulders. Mark muttered something, some objection, shifting himself to make himself more comfortable, but the Corinthian’s ears were full of water, and he just said; shh, shh, shh, and stroked him softly until he lay still again, waiting. The boy leaned his head back on his arms, his eyes closed, his breath hot snorts through his nostrils and the water lapping half way up his chest.
The Corinthian took himself in hand. Another shift in weight, rearrangement of limbs, and he pressed the head of his cock against him, looking for his angle to ease himself in. The boy bit his lip and moaned once, tugging on the knot which held him, but he was pushing his hips back into the Corinthian as hard as he could from his awkward angle.
Some things, the waking world did better, there was no disputing that, the Corinthian thought as he guided himself in, and even though nothing was easy or fluid or smooth like it was in the Dreaming, surely sometimes that was the point? Slowly, slowly, he slid in, feeling the muscle there give, clench, give, hissing through his teeth, knowing this delicious friction could milk an orgasm out of him before he’d even started. He clenched his back teeth and focused on the tile mould, holding still for a moment, laying a hand on Mark’s stomach to still him too. He breathed. The boy gave a little moan, a breathless noise of wanting, lifted his hips and tightened the wrap of his legs around the Corinthian’s waist. The Corinthian gasped out loud and bit his lip, catching hold of Mark by the nearest available handhold -his cock- and giving it a warning squeeze.
They stayed like that, in limbo, for a while, the boy bound and unable to help himself along until the Corinthian had regained enough poise to try a tentative little thrust. The movement sent warm water lapping round his balls, and he thrust again, raising his eyes to meet Mark’s, but the boy had closed his, leaned his head back, bitten his lip. His toe nails dug compulsively into the soft skin above the Corinthian’s hipbones.
“Open your eyes.” The Corinthian hissed. The boy answered by expelling a breath and opening them.
“Keep them open,” The Corinthian said, and then, with an urgent thrust, “Look at me,” as they wandered up to the ceiling tiles. Mark complied, and the Corinthian got down to business, one hand on his hip and one on his stomach, watching the boy’s pupil’s widen, his head twist as he hit the right spot with short, hard thrusts. Every now and then, as his head rocked back,
“Look at me,” His eyes in the boy’s eyes, until everything seemed to dissolve, and his own vision blurred into two dark, bright spots unwavering before him.
He came with a shudder and his foot slipped on the bottom of the slick bath, banging his knee painfully on the edge. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, making him swear in breathy gasps.
He met Mark’s eyes, watching him wide with concern, desperate for some acknowledgement, and he smiled back, all warm and alive with affection for him. He withdraw, disentangled their legs from each other and leant up his body to kiss him on the lips.
The boy’s own erection was pressing urgent business at his belly, and he reached down a slick hand and stroked it with great tenderness, like a much loved pet. He kissed and stroked for a while, letting the boy breathe out his arousal into his mouth, and gnaw on his lip as he came in the slick warm water.
“Mmm.” The boy sighed, warm contentment huffing from his lips. “That was good.”
Smiling indulgent agreement and letting his lips brush Mark’s forehead, the Corinthian reached behind the boy’s shoulder to pull out the plug. He hummed along with the gurgles as it drained, and ran a curious finger down the boy’s wet chest. He was beautiful, pliable and warm with his orgasm, glowing with some inner satisfaction. The Corinthian’s finger wandered over his sternum, along the sweep of his ribs, wondering about the source of that cat-like contentment, wondering if he could find it in there somewhere, and press on it with the ball of his thumb. He pressed on the boy’s belly button, instead, feeling the skin jump at his touch as he dug his thumb in harder to see what the he would do. There must be something in there. Something that made a boy like this more than his tendons and blood could make him. Something sweet and pure and delicate that he could cut right out and cradle, like silver or cut glass. He could wear it like an amulet, or curl up with it in bed every night. Keep it warm. Fuck it to sleep. Eat it, like an eyeball, cherry-soft and oozing with juice. Something pure and rare and beautiful, and warm on his thighs like water. Like semen. Like blood. Screams in his ears like bells.
All this, the newborn Corinthian recalled with absolute clarity. The sensations belonged to a whole other life, and yet it felt so fresh, it set his fingertips tingling. Morpheus was right. He had fallen far short of perfect. He had come so close to something, and yet missed it. And besides, after all that, he’d forgotten to turn the bubbles on.
This time, he determined, things would be better.
~fin~
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