onion-eyed

[onion-eyed]

I have a theory that if we hit the Kindly Ones, the Corinthian is going straight into the t-shirt and jeans look, and we're going to get a nightmare that's kinda trashy, a lot more overtly vicious, and much more messy.

I liked what we got in the show, the guy with the taste for classic cars and pricey clothes, but I always had the idea that those are affectations, nothing native to his nature, maybe even things he picked up from his time in the waking world.

netflix corinthian can pretend to be as classy as he wants I know he eats rats

[onion-eyed]

alcibiades

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hey can we spread some love across the dashboard tonight ... rb and say in the tags why you initially followed + why you stayed for the person you rbed from !

[onion-eyed]

hey can we spread some love across the dashboard tonight ... rb and say in the tags why you initially followed + why you stayed for the person you rbed from !

[onion-eyed]

(soft, soft sigh)

i can imagine a few worlds where he does, but I think that in every one of them, Dream just dusts him immediately. He'd be humiliated to be seen needing help, he'd justify it by saying the Corinthian still acted beyond his remit in killing dreamers, and that'd be it.

And honestly? The Corinthian that shows up to rescue Dream knows what will happen and does it anyway.

If the corinthian went to rescue his lord

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Honestly one of my favorite things about being a part of fandom, both in terms of writing things I'd never have written and in terms of pleasing people I dig.

Please, let me make you happy with the Corinthian getting off to someone fingering his eye-mouths! This also makes me happy!

In my never-ending desire to people please and give gifts, I have found myself writing things that previously I wouldn't have even considered breeding kink and piss kink I'm looking at you and its kinda nice to be going outside of the box for a little adventure xx

[onion-eyed]

He's like five minutes old, and already, sorrow and rejection.

Be nice to the new Corinthian, Matthew. This one's different.

The Sandman: The Kindly Ones #57-69 (1993)

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Oooooh, i am behind on everything, but i need to read this one!

i wrote another thing (amazing! *pats self on back*)

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She’s an archivist, that’s her job!  It’s just that saving someone sometimes means turning them into a book and putting them in the rare volumes cage.

Thinking about Lucienne and the Corinthian having the nastiest emotionally charged semi-hate sex and as Lucienne pegs him, the Corinthian grits out, “You can’t save Dream. And you can’t save me, either.”

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THE BOY HAS ARRIVED HE CAN GO ON THE KEYS HE CAN GO ON THE BACKPACK

LOOKIT HIM HE IS BEAUTIFUL AND I LOVE HIM SO MUCH

HE WAS SENT WITH TREATS AND A DOODLE

@avainquin made this charming little dude, go check out their esty store!

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For me, in his aspect as a dark mirror and then in his 20th century free-for-all serial killing spree, he’d be an avatar of the Desolation, potentially with the delusion that he is the Desolation.

There’s been a fanfic in the back of my mind forever and a day set in the 1880s where the Corinthian is the most devoted little avatar of the Desolation who falls hopelessly in love with Dream, who’s a member of the Circus of the Other and an emerging avatar of the Stranger.

*

“Little boys with little toys,” the fair man said, almost friendly. “You ever think about how breakable all your wooden puppets are? How flammable?”

“It does not matter if they break,” Dream said, standing up and brushing his hands clean on his apron. “You would not like what comes out from inside them.”

“That a fact?” He didn’t sound impressed – instead he was eager, and that was how Dream recognized him, an avatar of the devouring fire.

“This is not your house, hungry one, and your master will burn no cities for you if you misbehave here.”

“One more broken body on the road to glory, yeah, it wouldn’t mind that much.” He shrugged. “I’ll be good. I’m just playing messenger tonight, anyway.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. The circus is welcome in Lazarevka and Novosil, but keep out of Odinok. We’ve got our own fun brewing. You’d spoil it.”

“I will relay the message,” Dream said, but the other avatar didn’t move, instead only watched him through those smoked quartz spectacles. It wasn’t a fire’s senseless hunger, but a predator’s careful regard, and Dream’s hand tightened on his chisel.

“You’d look good in pieces,” the other mused, and Dream smiled coldly.

“If you wish to keep liking your handsome face in the mirror as much as I suspect you do, you should keep such thoughts to yourself.”

For some reason, that made the man grin, wide and sunny.

“You think my face is handsome?” he inquired, and Dream realized uncomfortably that he did.

can SOMEONE who’s in the specific group of people that are both into the magnus archives and the sandman tell me their thoughts on what entity the corinthian would be aligned with. because so many of them fit him it feels like he’s more aligned with whatever the fuck attacked father edwin burroughs in mag19&20 where it was literally every other entity and their mom

[onion-eyed]

Phlegm is of course always a delight, but look at the effortless way Dream’s holding the Corinthian and how much our favorite murderer wants to make something very very dead!  Adore his fangs and Dream’s nails, and the fact that the Corinthian, after all, is just a tiny kitty in the grand scheme things once the Endless come into play.   Love it so much, and I’m like two sleepless nights from trying to find a fic where Dream actually does scruff his little monster.

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Smoke break

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Augh, this one’s so mean and I love it so much. It’s just a horror show of domination and punishment backed by the prettiest gothic aesthetic all around (seriously, weaving your own noose makes me sorta faint with love for it) and it’s so much I love in people writing about nightmares and the Dreaming and Dream in his more terrifying aspects.

Antenora (Sandman Fic)

Summary - Instead of unmaking the Corinthian, Dream sets out a punishment far more cruel and fitting for his betrayal.

Also posted to AO3

Tucked away on a jagged cliffside which overlooked the violently churning ink-black seas of Nightmare below, sat a tree. Its thick trunk anchored it to the shifting sands below, dry bark knotted and twisted as the harsh, winter-frozen winds slowly flayed away ragged strips to expose the bleeding wood below.

Its branches were gnarled and fierce, clawed into their form like a vicious beast desperately trying to escape its rooted position within the world. A brilliant, almost ethereal, shade of scarlet, it was a tree which radiated a terrible beauty that compelled the eye to behold it while also chastising the voyeur by inspiring a deep sense of dread as each stunning branch was surveyed in turn.

But the true allure of the tree was not its natural beauty, crafted personally by the merciless hand of the Nightmare King, but in the suffering nightmare which hung from its most central branch, his bare feet dangling several feet high from the safety of the cruel sand below.

Naked as a newborn babe, the only adornment which he was permitted to hold - aside from the pale noose which held him suspended like a marionette - was a simple wooden sign that hung around his neck to cover the upper part of his torso. The coarse, rusted metal chain looped around his nape delved into the chaffed skin there like a lovers caress, sparking a small yet never-ending thin rivulet of blood to run down his pale frame until it was swallowed by the sand below.

Upon there, inscribed on the sign by a sharp finger which scored across the wood like a glowing brand, lay a single scrawled word.

Traitor.

The latest in a long list of titles reserved for the once-feared arch nightmare of the Dream Lord, the Corinthian. A creature of narrative, he wore his assigned role like the finest of fabrics, even when said story condemned him and tore at his skin with all the regard of the coarsest sandpaper.

He cut a fine figure, even in such a sorry state. His naked frame hung gracelessly as his hands remained pinned to his side in a lifeless fashion. The Corinthain was a creature built for beauty, a natural magnetism which attracted prey as easily as it repulsed them on some primal level. Toned limbs paired with fine, strong features that refused to be anything but as pretty as a picture even as they strained against their fate.

For the Corinthian, time had long since lost all meaning as he served his sentence.

The first year of his punishment had sparked desperation, dull fingers clawing frantically at the soft noose as it held him suspended in the never-ending discomfort of near death. He panicked. He kicked. And still he swung, his movements almost a bastardised version of a game that children would play around such an old tree. In this state of desperation, the Corinthian’s nails had lacerated at his strained neck until his digits grew bloodied and painfully raw but it made no difference.

---

The Dream Lord had been clear in his punishment.

The Corinthian gazed at the long strips of cloth which lay in a messy spread across the obsidian table. Stripped of his finery and bolted in place by heavy chains which restricted his body and choked his bare flesh, the things he dared take pleasure in as he allowed Dream to be held captive had been torn from him in an instant and the shame of his forced nudity spread through his frame like a roiling sickness.

“He could unmake us.” His left eye whispered and the Corinthian snapped it shut with a rough blink. Fear, potent in its intensity, kept both his knees and his gaze rooted to the barbed floor regardless of how uncomfortable the position quickly grew. Dream wanted him punished and the very terrain would see to it that his will was met.

"Wants to hurt us instead." The right eye confirmed before quickly finding itself snapped shut with equal prejudice.

A sharp crack, almost like lightning, caused the Corinthian to flinch in place. His exposed spine shuddered against the sudden chill as Dream filled the space before him in an instant, blotting out everything but the dark table and shredded scraps of suit before him.

Weave them.

Falling into the subservience which threaded his very DNA, the Corinthian bowed his head once more and refused eye contact with his maker.

"I don't understand."

You were not created to understand. Your pride in assuming you are entitled to it is flawed.

Flawed.

A flash of rage curled low in the Corinthian's belly as his head snapped up. Subservient, yes, but he was not built to show belly.

"Fucking unmake me then. Do it. Just like Gault and the others. The void can't be any worse than this. These-" he paused to allow his thoughts to catch up with his rebellious tongue, "fucking guessing games."

The void would not suffice. An example must be made. By moving against me, you snared a noose around your own throat, and you will now see it to completion.

Glancing down at the cloth strips, the Corinthian's fate grew clearer before his eyes, the ending to his tale sinking its barbs deeper into his unwilling skin, and a fresh bubble of panic ignited deep within his core.

No.

The refusal came quickly, rising in his chest even as his lips refused to form around it. However, he could hide nothing of himself from Dream and the internal hesitation may as well have been a howled emotional display for all the good it would do him.

A sickening snap preceded the scream which tore free of the Corinthian's throat as his fingers moved of their own accord. The only exception being the pinkie which now bent at a right angle from the rest of the digits.

Weave.

Dream once again demanded without a voice.

And the Corinthian, red tracks of bloodied tears now flowing freely from his ocular teeth, obeyed.

The narrative demanded penance and the press of it against his being traitorously eroded away the blinding anger which sparked his betrayal. Unable to do much more, his fingers moved diligently of their own accord as they wove the strips of his former suit into a thick rope; every movement sparking fresh pain in the snapped pinkie.

Memories of Calliope, of all people, stirred within his frantic mind. She had taught him the intricacies of crafting, her fascination with his status as a nightmare of such power inspiring her to inspire him in turn, to see what a monster such as he could construct if so pressed. Her teachings were soft and under her command he had grown in both technique and innovation; his fingers defter and more artistic in his wicked trade as he passed his skills along to his day trade.

A howl brokered free of his throat as a deep gouge tore itself asunder from his thigh; the stench of blood arousing his hunger even as his body curled in on itself to avoid any further pains. To that end, the Corinthian, panting and writhing in discomfort, shook his head free of the memories as their presence was clearly not appreciated by his wrathful master.

Before too long, his clothing had been reluctantly reconstructed into a thick length of rope; each strand containing various shades of beige and white as they melted together to form something which filled the Corinthian with horror as he beheld it.

A noose.

Fit for an apostate.

---

After clawing at the noose provided no relief to his suffering frame, the Corinthian tried to plead.

He screamed for forgiveness, for a mercy which he knew was undeserved. The narrative painted him as a traitor and would see him punished as such. His betrayal had cost the Dream Lord a friend in the shape of his raven and that sting, no matter how slight it may grow over time, would be punished a millennia over. He howled through the noose, the sounds reduced to little more than choking coughs and unknown sibilance, until he thought his ears would burst from the noise which refused to leave his lips and his lungs burned red-hot from the effort.

Eventually, the screaming stopped, and the Corinthian found himself reduced to pitiful sobs. They often resembled the cries of a neglected child in pain, desperate for some attention, be it positive or negative from those who had abandoned it and the shame of each bloodied tear burned across his cheek. However, even these tears came to pass, and the Corinthian was left with nothing but the ache in his lungs from the limited oxygen he was permitted to receive.

The shores of Nightmare were not an area of pure isolation, rather, many nightmares and a few envoys of various realms found themselves caught in the thin, winding path which passed before the brilliant scarlet tree. The nightmares knew, because of course they did, of the fate of the Corinthian as he remained frozen in a living hell but to an unexpecting party it provided quite the harrowing sight.

Word of mouth proved itself a terrible thing and many within the Dreaming itself found themselves curious and, even in this innocent curiosity, the ingenuity of the Dream Lord would come into play.

Any who would dare to approach, who would dare to attempt to touch the guilty - regardless if it were to persecute or palliate - would find themselves gripped by a primal fear. It would pierce their heart in such a way that many fell to their knees, clutching at their chest like babes as ice ran through their veins and the whispers of a warning, carved into the very earth they stood, caressed their ears.

Leave him.

He is not to be disturbed.

Only observed.

The will of the Dream Lord. A brutal and relentless thing which defied mercy at every turn. To touch the Corinthian would provide him an anchor to latch onto other than the punishment he deserved and that could not be allowed. He was to suffer.

Alone.

Forgotten.

To suffer the fate he intended for his master.

Tucked away on a jagged cliffside which overlooked the violently churning ink-black seas of Nightmare below, hung a nightmare.

Perhaps one day his Lord would forgive him his slight and return him to his former glory as a member of the Major Arcana. Or, perhaps one day the Dream Lord would recall his favoured nightmare and the fate which befell him. He would recall the millennia of loyalty before the grapes turned sour, and finally grant him the mercy of the unfeeling void.

Until then, the Corinthian would remain; unintelligible, whispered pleas carrying on the frigid winds of Nightmare to strike unease in the heart of any unfortunate enough to hear them.

[onion-eyed]

Do you know how many years it was before I realized they were literally chasing Destruction?

She just wants to find her brother 😭 (Destruction, since they won't ever say his name only by Brother or Prodigy. I also relate to her when she asked if he was makin fun of her. She's so precious. If we don't get a few episodes with Dream and Delirium like this in the second season, Imma riot and protest.)

The Sandman: Brief Lives vol. 7 (1994)

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Sometimes, you look at the skeletons of two deer that died with their antlers locked and staring into each other‘s eyes, and you think, ‘yes, that’s romance.’

And it is, but maybe also get a quick snack and a drink of water before you make any important calls.

hey, does anyone want to lock antlers and drown together in a cold lake? it has to be weird.

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Daniel, upon entering the Corinthian’s possession, becomes about as safe as it’s possible for a person to be. Everything else around him gets less safe, because the Corinthian is present, but, eh, trade-offs.

look what the stork brought

corinthian dad

daddy

papi

papa

you can’t convince me that he would not be a good dad

he takes so good care those lil shits