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seiya-starsniper · 2 years ago

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and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 1

On their next meeting, Hob realizes the pattern.

The man (vampire? werewolf? some otherworldly being?) comes after Hob every 100 days. The irony of this is not lost on Hob. Of course Hob would end up with not one, but two mysterious otherworldly strangers with a penchant for refusing to give Hob their names, forcing him to come up with nicknames in his head. He can’t very well name them Stranger 1 and Stranger 2 though, so Hob decides that his centennial friend will remain The Stranger, and his new unintended sparring partner is now Murder Stalker.

---

Hob Gadling interrupts The Corinthian in the middle of a murder and explodes him back to The Dreaming. The Corinthian comes back for revenge. Hob keeps finding new ways to blow him up. At some point, it becomes something more.

Aka enemies to fuck-buddies to lovers.

Keep reading below, or read here on AO3

Hob Gadling is not sure what drove him to take a smoke near the dilapidated White Horse tavern instead of just outside The New Inn, but he’s now wishing he'd stuck closer to civilization as he would’ve completely avoided the mess he’s currently in.

It had been a late night at The New Inn, as end of semester time tends to be. It’s his worst kept secret to his students that he tends the bar there, and without fail, he always ends up entertaining a handful of them on the last day of finals. Hob’s glad he’s popular with his students, it not only keeps him gainfully employed, but also brings him an indescribable sense of achievement, knowing that he’s affecting so many young minds so positively.

He’s riding high on the feeling of a semester well done, so he decides it's a great time to take a walk when he dips outside for a smoke after his students leave. This deviation from his normal routine is exactly how he finds himself witness to a murder.

When Hob thinks about it later, he realizes the area is fairly secluded, The New Inn is just far away enough, and loud enough, that no one would hear any sort of scuffle, or hell, even screams. Not to mention the old White Horse demolition site, which people generally avoid like the plague at night, is just steps away, making it more than an ideal place to hide a body if need be.

But he has no time in the present to think about these things, because he’s rushing in to save some poor bloke that’s just been stabbed with his pants around his ankles.

Hob thinks at first the poor man is the victim of some homophobic attack, but upon coming face to face with the man’s attempted murderer, Hob concludes there is absolutely no way the blond in front of him is heterosexual.

He looks like he just walked off a spread in GQ magazine, incredibly fit and with bed-mussed hair. He’s wearing a tailored beige suit and also, bewilderingly, the darkest shades Hob has ever seen on anyone, in the absolute dead of night. Hob thinks the man must be blind, but he's quickly disavowed of the notion when he tries to wrestle the knife out of the man's hands.

Hob realizes very quickly the man is a lot faster than he is, even with the quick reflexes he's developed over the centuries. Hob briefly wonders if his reflexes really aren't as fast as he thought, or maybe he's just drunk, then decides it doesn't matter because he's completely overpowered either way.

The man slashes a deep line in Hob’s throat, and he collapses as he begins to choke on his own blood. No matter how many times Hob gets stabbed, shot, or broken down, he can never get used to the pain that comes with each new injury. Immortality may have its fair share of perks, but pain tolerance is definitively not one of them.

The bespectacled man looks all together far too pleased at his handiwork because he stares for a few seconds watching Hob gurgle through his blood, and then he has the audacity to lick his lips. It would be a downright sinful look at literally any other time, and Hob hates himself for still finding a literal murderer attractive while he’s bleeding all over his favorite shirt.

Seemingly satisfied with his handiwork, the blonde man turns around and returns to his work on his original victim. Hob can hear the telltale squelching as knife meets flesh and he realizes through his otherwise hazy vision that he's removing the other man's left eye while he is still alive.

Hob wants to throw up but forces himself to lay still, willing his breathing to be as quiet as possible to not alert the murderer barely a few meters away from him. He’s sure that the other man is too engrossed in his task to notice that Hob has stopped struggling to breathe, but even if he did, he probably would have just thought Hob eventually bled out. When Hob feels his vision begin to clear and the wound on his throat close up just enough to allow him the shallowest of breaths, he looks around to see what he can utilize to stop the man from continuing his gruesome activities.

Hob ends up putting together a crude Molotov cocktail, utilizing his torn bloody shirt, a lighter in his front pocket, and some discarded bottles near his feet that blessedly still have their vodka inside them. He knows it's a long shot because the man moves far too fast to be purely human, but Hob's been around long enough to know most things, mortal or not, are not immune to fire. Hob sends a mental plea to whatever deity may be out there looking out for him, and then uses the last of his strength to chuck the crudely thrown together bomb at the man's back.

The man doesn't quite burn up the way a human being might. He screams at a pitch Hob’s never heard before when he realizes what’s struck him, and then suddenly his body is just….disintegrating? Except that's not quite right, either, all Hob knows is that the man is there one moment, gone the next, and there's no body, or even the smell of burning flesh to prove he was ever there.

The only thing that remains of the mysterious serial killer is his dark round sunglasses, which Hob crushes under his boot in a moment of pettiness. Then he pulls out his phone and calls for emergency services.

The constable stares at him suspiciously while Hob gives his statement, but there’s no murder weapon and Hob manages to cover up the stab tears in his shirt with a cardigan he keeps in his bag. Absolutely everything of Hob's is now soaked in blood, which makes him even more suspicious looking, but there's clearly no defensive wounds on him thanks to his expedited healing, so the police eventually buy his story that he came upon a man bleeding to death and tried his best to resuscitate him.

Unfortunately the poor bloke is long dead by the time he’s hauled into the ambulance. He's lost too much blood, and he’s missing an eye, and the thought that this mysterious murderer did not fully complete the job he set out to do should not spark something dark in Hob's ego, but it does. It's just as well though that the man died anyways, Hob's not sure the man would be able to process the sheer fuckery of what's happened tonight, his death covers up his murderer as much as it does Hob’s immortality.

Hob makes a note to look up demon exorcists when he gets home, then collapses on the bed, the adrenaline of fighting for his life having worn off. He decides he'll just burn the sheets and his clothes in the morning before he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

Thank God tomorrow is Saturday.

—

When the blond man reappears, Hob is both surprised and not at the same time. He knew the man was not dead, but he also hadn't been expecting to see him so soon after their first encounter.

He's also not entirely surprised the man has tracked him to The New Inn. Hob's on a smoke break and as he lights up his cigarette, he notices the man smiling at him in the shadows from behind a brand new, not crushed, pair of dark rimmed glasses. Hob has barely a second to react before he’s staring down the long blade of a dagger that's far too close to his right eye. Hob briefly mourns the loss of his cigarette (they're so expensive these days), thanks his lucky stars he brought his coat with him, and pulls out his own weapon hidden within.

Hob doesn't believe in leaving things up to chance. He knows the man saw his face and he also knows the man is some sort of supernatural entity, and the buggers are a lot more resourceful than your standard run of the mill human. So Hob knows he's a marked man and frankly, anyone would be pretty pissed to be exploded back to Hell, or wherever this guy came from. For all that Hob is immortal, he can still be hurt or captured, and he hasn't lived all this time without running into a few of the things that go bump in the night, as well as the various ways to get rid of them.

Hob was woefully unprepared last time for his encounter with the blonde supernatural murderer. This time, Hob's got a few tricks up his sleeve, courtesy of the descendent of one Lady Johanna Constantine, who, hilariously enough, shares a name with her great -great-great-great grandmother.

"You're not going to be sending anything back to Hell with that horrible accent of yours," the blond mocks, blade barely missing Hob's check. Hob honestly thought he knew what type of being he was, but the man only laughs when he tries to douse him in holy water, and what the hell is wrong with his pronunciation anyways?!

Hob had spent the last 3 and a half months practicing dodging daggers and he's still too slow to match the other man blow for blow. Hob prepared for the eventuality of none of his carefully laid plans working but he's still so angry that not only has none of it worked, but that the blonde also finds his efforts so fruitless that he has time to mock him.

"Horrible accent, says the American," Hob shoots back disdainfully, shoving his blade towards the other man and missing spectacularly. Hob’s going to need new sparring partners if he hopes to survive any future knife fights with him.

The man laughs again and Hob wills himself to not imagine that laugh in a different situation. He really, really needs to get out more if he's still finding himself attracted to a being that is currently trying its damnedest to cut his eyes out.

Hob knows for all his immortality, his stamina still has a limit, and he’s close to reaching it. The man must be able to tell too, because he redoubles his efforts to get at Hob’s eyes, and he’s so focused on that task that he doesn’t notice the talisman Hob’s able to stick on him when he gets just a little too close. Hob whispers one final spell, and even behind the shades, he can tell the man’s eyes widen in shock once he realizes what Hob has done.

Hob smirks as the man is ripped apart, returning to wherever it is he goes when he needs to regenerate his body. He may not be a demon, but protection talismans still had their uses against him, and Hob makes a mental note to go reach out to that lovely coven of witches he happened upon in Edmonton.

He's also going to have to tell Johanna that nope, the eye stealing murderer he's dealing with is not a standard demon from Hell. He's already dreading the conversation. Johanna's initial help had not come cheap for Hob and he just knows she's going to charge some exorbitant price from him to do additional research.

—

The third time they meet, the man is angry. Hob takes advantage of his less precise movements and leads him away from The New Inn, closer to the secluded area near The White Horse, where they first met. He eventually wrestles the blonde into a pair of iron forged handcuffs. They don't burn at the man's wrists, which confirms he isn't Fey, but they also don't break apart no matter how hard the man tugs at them. Hob did forge them himself, thank you very much, so he knows that even the strongest human would be hard pressed to break them without the aid of some extreme force.

“Pretty kinky,” the man says, flexing the cuffs behind his back. “Didn’t think we were at this stage of our relationship Robert.”

Hob knows it shouldn’t shock him that the man knows his name, he did track him down at his place of employment for Christ’s sake, but the surprise must show on his face because the blonde stranger laughs.

“Of course I know your name, sweetheart," he says in the most condescending American drawl Hob has ever heard in his life. "I’ve been thinking about sinking my knife into you all day and all night.”

Hob very pointedly ignores the double entendre and reminds himself that eyeball stealing murderers do not make for good bed partners.

“Little unfair of you to know my name, when I don't know yours, sweetheart," Hob shoots back and he swears he sees a little shiver go down the blonde man's back at the pet name, even if it was delivered sarcastically.

"Tsk tsk Robert, no wonder your little tricks aren't working on me, you don't even know who or what I am," he goads, clearly enjoying having the upper hand in knowledge.

“Well, if you’re not willing to tell me that, then I guess I’ll just have to find something else about you,” Hob says and reaches for the blonde man’s glasses. The resounding snarl is so ferocious, Hob forgets himself and stumbles backwards in fear. The man must be sensitive about his eyes, because the next thing Hob knows, the cuffs are broken and it’s a race against time to see who can recover their weapons the fastest.

Hob manages to launch an old grenade from his war days at the man as he picks up his signature knives, and the resulting explosion is loud enough to shake The White Horse. Hob doesn’t stick around for the aftermath but he hears the sirens in the distance as he hurries home as discreetly as possible.

—----

On their next meeting, Hob realizes the pattern.

Hob has also tried to ply Johanna with information about The Stranger, but he had even less information on the man he’d been meeting for drinks over the centuries than he did on the man currently trying to harvest his organs. It's rather depressing. Johanna had also made fun of him for his physical description of The Stranger and told him "Mate, if I had a shilling for every dark-haired, dreary, brooding supernatural being roaming around London alone, I'd be a goddamn millionaire!"

So yeah. Hob's not doing too great in terms of the research regarding either of the supernatural entities he's somehow found himself embroiled with.

He also tried looking up supernatural entities that eat eyes but all he got was some Quora article on a recurring nightmare some people seem to be having about having their eyeballs eaten. Hob knows not to discount the power of dreams, he's met one or two genuine psychics who have shared their dream visions with him, but something tells him his Murder Stalker probably isn't some nightmare come to life in the real world.

Probably. Hob's never heard of dreams and nightmares becoming corporeal beings, but after everything he's seen in the last decade alone, it's as good of a theory as anything.

Back to the present predicament though.

Hob is currently attempting to wrap a silver chain around his still unnamed Murder Stalker, and all he gets for his trouble is delighted, mocking laughter.

"Jewelry? For me? I'm more of a gold man myself, Robert, but I won't ever say no to silver."

And with that, the man yanks the chain right out of Hob's hands and wraps it loosely around his neck, completely throwing out the theory of werewolf or vampire. Hob curses his impulsive purchase of silver bullets, but Johanna had been very persuasive when she'd sold them to him. He also may have been a little (a lot) more drunk than he'd intended. Damn the woman and her insane alcohol tolerance.

Hob wonders if he can get a refund, then decides he'd have more luck trying to convince his Murder Stalker to give up killing entirely and move with him to a farm in Surrey and take up sheep herding.

He's broken out his thoughts by the sound of a blade hurtling through the air and Hob has enough time to barely avoid taking a knife to his fucking eye. The blade nicks his ear, and takes some hair with it before it lands in the tree behind him.

Maybe he should start wearing protective eyewear in the near future.

"I thought you wanted my eyes intact, you maniac!" he yells, barely avoiding a second dagger that comes straight at his face.

"Not my fault that you're not paying attention!" his Murder Stalker yells back, the feral grin Hob’s grown used to back on his face.

Hob thinks that just for that he’s going to be petty. It’s not like he has any other blindingly good ideas in his arsenal for today anyways, so he yanks the first knife out of the tree, whispers a quick spell into it and throws it back at the man. It explodes spectacularly in his hands when he flawlessly catches it, just like Hob expected him to.

Hob smiles as the man starts to disintegrate, then remembers an entirely different theory he'd wanted to test out just for shits and giggles, and yells, “See you in 100 days Corinthian!” right as the man disappears.

—

"How did you know it was me?" The Corinthian asks him the next time they meet, curiosity evident in his voice.

Hob grins. “I didn't. But thanks for confirming!” He gets a slash to his thigh for his troubles.

“It was really just a lucky guess,” he continues, trying to distract The Corinthian while he works to set up a rather complex spell. It is by far his most outlandish attempt to determine what kind of being the man is. “I was up late one night and one of those terrible American true crimes shows had a whole episode on The Corinthian! Everyone thinks it's just a legacy passed down from one serial killer to another but it's just been you all along, hasn't it?”

The smile Hob receives from the blonde is absolutely blinding. Who knew otherworldly beings just wanted acknowledgement for their accomplishments, just like everyone else?

“Look at that, little Robert finally figured something out about me, took you long enough,” the man (no, The Corinthian, he finally has a name) says.

“Cut me some slack!” Hob shoots back. There, the trap is finally set. “Some of us have other full time obligations to tend to, we can’t all just be running around murdering people.”

Hob really hopes no one at The New Inn will question why nearly all the salt that was supposed to last for the rest of month is suddenly, inexplicably, just gone. He’s already ordered a new batch that’s supposed to come in next week. In the meantime, the chips will just have to suffer being on the bland side.

When he lights the salt circle on fire, he can really only hope that no one thinks to call the fire brigade on him. The poor White Horse tavern is supposed to be preserved as a historical site, for fucks’ sake, and here Hob is, using it as his own personal supernatural fight club.

The Corinthian looks around his supposed trap, unimpressed.

“Do I look like an eldritch horror to you, Robert?” he sneers, kicking the salt away and dissolving months worth of effort in seconds.

Hob shrugs. “I’m running out of otherworldly beings you could possibly be. And I actually haven’t confirmed whether or not you’re hiding some slimy tentacles under that coat of yours. All I know is that you love to murder, do questionable things with eyeballs, and everytime I blow you up, you don’t come back for 100 days. Why every 100 days anyways?"

"I don’t have to tell you a damn thing," The Corinthian bites back, and yep, he most definitely offended at being mistaken for an elder god with tentacles. Hob pointedly does not think about whether or not tentacles would be a deal breaker for him.

“I’ll show you a horror,” the Corinthian threatens, and Hob kicks his backup plan into action. He’s never made a flour bomb before, but the general idea is pretty simple. Flour dust and a spark. Hob grabs the second knife The Corinthian had thrown at him and aims it at the discarded bag of flour he’d left sitting atop the roof of the White Horse the night before. While The Corinthian is distracted and coughing up the unexpected spray of flour on his person, Hob flicks on his lighter and tosses it towards the blonde.

He’s pretty sure he can hear The Corinthian cursing at him through the explosion for ruining his coat.

Hob adds flour to his to-buy list and whistles while walking back to The New Inn.

—

On the 6th meeting (Who's counting? Certainly not Hob), The Corinthian finds him in a rather precarious position. Hob never thought he’d be glad to see The Corinthian of all people, but really, anything beats having to become an experiment for some crazy occultists who seem to think drinking his blood and harvesting his organs are going to make them live forever.

There's six of them and one of Hob, and although he holds his own in a fight with them for a good hour thanks to all the stamina he's gained while fighting The Corinthian, Hob knows he is still outnumbered. He’s starting to lose hope that he can avoid being forced to where they want to take him, but his prayers are answered in the form of a vengeful blonde, who clearly does not take kindly to his recurring meeting being interrupted by outsiders.

Between the two of them, Hob’s able to take down two men while The Corinthian manages the other four. Hob doesn’t even feel bad that they’re all dead, the better the message to send to any other potential cults that may or may not be following him around. He kicks the body of one of the occultists just for good measure.

“Fuck these men, do whatever you want with their eyes, they got what's coming to them,” Hob says, not even bothering to hide the disdain in his tone. “Stupid fucking cultists.” Hob’s been around long enough to be hunted by more than a few cults, and he knows that they know nothing other than their own selfish greed. He’s lost more than a few good friends to cultists, so he feels absolutely zero remorse for their deaths and for letting The Corinthian harvest their eyes.

Hob’s snapped out of his dark thoughts towards the cultists when he hears The Corinthian’s knives cutting through flesh and Hob’s curiosity gets the better of him. He turns just in time to see two very aggressive eye mouths slurp up one of the dead man's eyeballs in one, two, three quick bites.

The Corinthian looks up from his snack and grins at Hob with all three mouths, his face bare for the first time in front of Hob. His glasses are tucked into his front coat pocket, and his cheeks are covered in a mixture of eye vitreous and blood. His tongue darts out absently to catch the liquid nearest his lips, and Hob, to his horror, finds the sight the most erotic thing he's ever seen in his life.

Well then.

The Corinthian almost immediately registers Hob's arousal, and his grin somehow grows even more feral. In between one step and the next he's suddenly crowding Hob up against the nearest flat surface, which happens to be the back exterior wall of The White Horse, and then he’s licking into his mouth while pressing his thigh in between Hob’s legs. Hob finds himself grabbing a fistful of blonde hair in one hand, The Corinthian’s ass in the other and yes, that’s just about as firm as he’d imagined it in his dirtiest fantasies alone in his flat.

In the dead of night, there's nothing but the sounds of their frantic panting and hips rutting against one another fully clothed. Hob is pretty sure the Corinthian doesn't even need to breathe, the bastard, but Hob does and he uses the opportunity to nip at The Corinthian's lip in warning when he pulls back.

"For the record, if you even try to take my eyeballs…" Hob starts, getting ready for a fight to erupt, but the Corinthian only laughs and kisses the rest of his sentence away.

"Yes, yes, you'll blow me to kingdom come and then some, I know the drill baby," he replies breathily, and begins to suck a deep bruise into Hob's throat. Hob is pretty sure he's using more than one mouth down there and he just somehow knows sex with The Corinthian is just going to absolutely ruin him for any other partners for the future, possibly forever.

When he's satisfied with the frankly massive hickey he leaves on Hob's throat, The Corinthian pulls away and sends him a grin that has heat shooting straight down his spine.

"Besides," he adds, "I've had my fill in the eye department, what I want from you is going to be so much more fun," and the purr in those last few words is enough for Hob to make the executive decision to not have his first time with this gorgeous creature be in the middle of a pile of dead bodies, no matter how fitting the motif. The Corinthian deserves to be worshiped on a bed, and Hob is all too willing to sacrifice his own mattress if it means he gets more than a quickie in the back of a crumbling inn.

"I've got a flat not far from here," he pants in between kisses.

"Ooo inviting me to your home, Robert? How dangerous." The Corinthian replies, his tone dark and inviting.

"As long as you promise not to get things too bloody, you're welcome to stay,” Hob says, and he finds that he means it.

"Good to know we can negotiate some blood play, baby, come on, take me home,” The Corinthian purrs and Hob doesn’t need to be told twice. The walk to his flat is mostly a blur, but once they reach their destination, The Corinthian does not hesitate to bodily push Hob into his bedroom.

Hob's thankful for his flat above The New Inn for a multitude of reasons. It's not only close to where he and The Corinthian meet every 100 days for their fight, but Hob's had the floors and walls soundproofed to block all the noise that comes from downstairs, making it also ideal for him and the Corinthian to be as loud and violent as they want.

The Corinthian is just as dominating in bed as he when he fights, and Hob comes so hard he's pretty sure he sees God. He has a brief thought that The Corinthian could probably take his eyes now and Hob wouldn't even notice, but one look at the other man tells him he's just as blissed as Hob from their lovemaking.

It doesn't last.

Within 10 minutes of their mutual climaxes, The Corinthian is scrambling around for his discarded clothing. When he's fully dressed, he delivers a brutal kiss to Hob's still bruised mouth before waltzing towards the door.

"See you in 100 days baby," The Corinthian coos and then in the blink of an eye he's gone and Hob is left alone in his flat.

It's the first time The Corinthian has left Hob by his own will and with all his body parts intact.

Hob lets his head fall back on his pillow and thinks to himself that he is totally fucked in the head.

Johanna is going to have a field day when Hob next talks to her.

—--

They fuck like rabbits the next three meetings. It's quite possibly the best sex Hob has ever experienced in his almost 700 years of life. The meetings always start the same, The Corinthian tries to kill him, Hob somehow subdues him (it's the cuffs, it's always the cuffs) and then instead of exploding the serial killer back to wherever he came from, Hob drags the man upstairs to his flat above The New Inn. Sometimes the blonde opens up for him like a flower, allowing Hob to tease him within an inch of his life. Other times, it's The Corinthian who sets the pace, and it's always brutal and unrelenting. He nearly bends Hob in half when he thrusts into him, and Hob loves every second.

He hadn't ever considered it before, but now that he's been with the Corinthian more than a few times, Hob realizes that he's glad to finally have a bed partner that knows the full lengths of his immortality. The Corinthian Isn't afraid to be just on the other side of rough and painful during sex, and Hob does his damn best to give as good as he gets.

On their tenth meeting, The Corinthian doesn't even make an attempt to try to slaughter Hob for his eyes first, he simply corners him in the alley behind The New Inn during a smoke break, and bites his way into his mouth. Hob’s barely lit cigarette is crushed underneath their feet, and he thinks that if The Corinthian were trying to get him to quit smoking, this was a fantastic way to go about it.

It's only after he goes back inside and someone screams upon seeing him that he realizes The Corinthian smeared blood all over his clothes. Blood Hob knows doesn’t belong to his supernatural fuckbuddy. His stomach sinks at the thought of some poor innocent being used as foreplay for the two of them and resolves to tell off the blonde in their next meeting. He'd rather go back to their old arrangement and risk his own immortal life than add to the already extensive body count he knows The Corinthian keeps growing (maybe, just maybe, Hob has an extensive file on The Corinthian and all his murders overseas and in the UK).

When Hob turns on the news a few days later, it's to a breaking report of a known child molester being fished out of the river with no eyes.

Hob weighs the pros and cons of the knowledge, and decides that one less terrible person on the street isn't the worst price to pay for one of the best orgasms of his life.

He still decides against telling Johanna Constantine of his new arrangement with The Corinthian. She'd reacted poorly to his last story and called him a lunatic for even entertaining the man in his bed.

"Next time you even think about that eye fucker," she had berated him over a round of drinks, "You must think instead, WWJD: What Would Johanna Do? And I can tell you, she would not fuck a demon!"

"But he's not a demon, remember? The exorcism didn't work!"

"Not the fucking point Hob. Not the fucking point at all."

—

While waiting for their eleventh meeting, Hob decides to do a bit of research.

When he’d finally confirmed The Corinthian’s identity, Hob had absolutely devoured all the information he could about the United States’s most prolific serial killer. His murders date back almost a century, and there’s thousands of theories on whether The Corinthian is actually a family of murderers or some sort of cult.

If only they knew the truth.

The victims had started out quite randomly, as serial killers tended to do. A schoolteacher here, an office worker there. Hob finds that while plenty of the victims are homosexual men, there are some women thrown in there too. Never any children though. Interesting.

But as Hob goes through the reports on The Corinthian's latest killings, he notices a markedly different trend dating back to…oh just short of a year and a half after he and Hob had begun to meet regularly.

As far as Hob (and the general news) can tell, The Corinthian right now is only exclusively hunting down other known criminals. Some of which are other serial killers the police themselves have had trouble tracking down. In fact, were it not for The Corinthian carving out their eyes and leaving their bodies lying around, there’s a chance those same killers would still be on the loose.

Huh. Well then.

—

“Been noticing a lot of dead criminals missing their eyes lately, had a change of heart?” Hob asks one night after a surprisingly vanilla bout in the sheets. There hadn’t been any stabbing attempts this time. Progress.

The Corinthian hums in consideration as he pulls his coat on. “No, they just happen to be my favorite types lately.”

“Favorite? And only lately?”

The Corinthian grins and nips at Hob’s neck affectionately.

"You've made me realize I like it when my food fights back." Then, considering the discussion closed, the blonde moves to leave.

Hob, in what can only be described as a moment of insanity, grabs The Corinthian sleeve and says "Stay."

"Stay?"

—

The Corinthian stays the night. Hob uses his tongue to convince him to stay another night. On the third night, The Corinthian leaves with no warning and Hob wonders if his type isn't just men who are allergic to attachment. At least this time he's getting a little bit more out of the arrangement, but his heart feels heavy all the same.

To both their surprises, The Corinthian doesn't even make it the next 100 days before their next encounter. He shows up to Hob's flat in the middle of one of the worst rain storms of the summer, looking like a drowned cat.

Hob immediately knows something is different, and while the logical part of him is screaming Danger! Murderer! Do not engage! Hob's feet move backwards to let The Corinthian into his flat. He peels the man's wet coat off him and settles him onto the couch, then goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The silence between them is heavy.

"I'm glad you're here. I've missed you," Hob tries for casualness even though he can feel his hands shaking. Holding back from touching The Corinthian is one of the hardest things in the world, he thinks.

The Corinthian snorts. "You've missed me? Pretty bold of you to say to the man that's been trying to disembowel you for the better part of a decade.” Hob hasn’t heard The Corinthian’s defensive tone in quite a while. It’s surprising, but with the way things ended last time, maybe it isn’t at the same time.

“I've been keeping up with you in the news, you know. Looks like you've been having a field day in America.” Hob thinks as long as he can keep talking, he can keep The Corinthian from leaving again.

The blonde man grins, as if he’s in on a joke that Hob won’t understand. "I'm a murderer,” he chirps, standing from Hob’s couch, ignoring the tea Hob’s given him. “I kill people for fun. It's what I was made to do.” He says this last sentence quite pointedly, and ah, Hob thinks he understands now.

"So I've noticed," Hob replies. "You’ve got a pretty large body count that goes back pretty far. But you've been killing different types of people lately. What was it you said back then? You like it when your food fights back?"

"Entirely your fault by the way.” The Corinthian snaps.

“All right,” Hob placates, then takes a deep breath. “So then…let me help you.”

“What?” It’s clearly the last thing The Corinthian is expecting to hear. Hob takes advantage of the shock and continues to push his, admittedly, wild and crazy proposition.

“If it's my fault that you can only eat a certain type of food, then let me help you. London's chock full of criminals that get away with horrible things too, it’s not exclusive to America.” Hob says matter of factly. “The way I see it, you're doing humanity a favor by keeping this up, aren't you?”

The Corinthian laughs, but Hob can tell it’s not genuine. There’s an old hurt there, he can tell. Something or someone probably tried to keep The Corinthian from killing all together, and he didn’t take too kindly to that.

“See, you're running on the assumption that those types are the only ones I'm killing.” The blonde says. “For all you know, there’s dozens more bodies the cops just haven’t found.”

“Then we'll work on that,” Hob says, matter of factly.

“Work on it?” The Corinthian repeats, incredulous. “What makes you think you can control me?” he challenges.

“I don't think that,” Hob says honestly. “But all relationships have to put in some compromises, so I don't think it's too much to ask you to be a bit more discerning with your murders.” Hob pretends he doesn't hear the choked "a relationship?!" in the middle of his soapbox and presses on.

“Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush, I don't know what you are or why you feel so inclined to murder humans, but if it really is in your nature, then it is what it is,” he shrugs and when he meets his eyes, he can tell The Corinthian knows he’s telling the truth. Hob’s been alive for a very long time. He knows that Death is inevitable for almost everyone and he also knows that there's no rhyme or reason to who gets to live and who gets to die.

"I've had enough brushes with supernatural entities, especially in the last few years, to know that there are things I just can't assign human morality to" Hob continues. "And that's fine. But you and I keep coming back to each other, and I'd like you to stay. I think you want to stay too."

Hob thinks he must be an idiot for telling yet another supernatural being that the reason they keep coming back to him time and time again is for his companionship but damnit, the man isn't his Stranger, he's somehow become more in less amount of time, and isn't that something? Hob's always worn his heart on his sleeve anyways and he can't deny that somewhere along the line, he’s fallen for this fucked up, inhumane creature, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to see if the spark between them is just that, a spark…or something more.

The Corinthian is silent for a long time, but he doesn't leave, and that alone is enough to give Hob hope.

“You are infuriating Robert Gladlen,” he finally says. “Fine then, let’s see what being a kept man looks like. If I get bored, I’ll just take your eyes in your sleep and leave.” The feral, self deprecating smirk is back but Hob doesn’t care. He feels himself grinning like a fool. The smile on Hob’s face must be unexpected because The Corinthian’s smirk slides right off his face just as fast as it had been put there. Hob decides to go all in.

“It's Gadling,” Hob says, stepping into the other man’s space and taking his hands in his. “My original name.” He presses a kiss into The Corinthian’s knuckles, taking note of the slight shiver he receives in response. “You can even call me Hob, if you'd like.”

"Hob Gadling," The Corinthian tests out the name, and Hob finds he really likes the way he says it. "What are you, some sort of medieval peasant?"

“Something like that,” Hob says lightly. He thinks he’d tell his whole life story to this infuriating being if he asked.

“I've changed my mind,” The Corinthian declares loudly, pulling his hands away and raising his arms dramatically. “I can't be seen with a poor man like this, my reputation will suffer.”

Hob thinks he may be walking on clouds. “Sure, sure. Now I don't know about you, but I'm starving, and not for eyeballs. Dinner then?”

“Only if it’s not that garbage you serve at this third rate pub downstairs.” The Corinthian sneers.

“Hey! There's nothing wrong with my pub food!” Hob argues. “You’ve never even been inside, I’d like to point out, so how can you tell me you hate the food?”

"What was that you said about all relationships having compromises?” The Corinthian says with what looks like a genuine smile finally on his face. “Well my compromise sounds like a nice Wagyu Steak, any idea where we can get one?"

"Christ you're going to be expensive, aren't you?"

"The best things in life are, Hobsie,” The Corinthian laughs.

“Now hang on just a second!”

#hobrinthian #eventual hobrintheus #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #the corinthian #hob gadling #they're serial killer boyfriends your honor #I can't believe I forgot to post this on my tumblr lol #but here it is #mystuff #seiya writes #seiya writes hobrinthian #seiya writes hobrintheus

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seiya-starsniper · 2 years ago

Text

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 5

Link on Ao3 [Here]

Chapter summary: A little bit of domestic fluff, as a treat. Also, Dream shows up in Hob's dreams :)

They talk. Really talk. The next morning, Hob and The Corinthian sit in bed for hours and speak openly for the first time about their pasts, and their history with Dream.

Hob learns about The Corinthian’s creation, how warm Dream had been in the beginning, how the Endless had only grown colder and colder over time. How jealous The Corinthian had been when Dream had started his appointments with Hob. The Corinthian had been around for all of Dream’s failed lovers, and Hob could feel the loneliness the nightmare felt every time Dream fell in love again, along with the anger that followed every time Dream took out his sorrows on his realm, on his creations, on The Corinthian himself, when things eventually soured.

The Corinthian also opens up, for the first time, about his time in the Waking prior to meeting Hob. Hob of course had done his initial research, had devoured documentary after documentary, book after book, podcast after podcast. The world was obsessed with The Corinthian's crimes. But now Hob knows the true story behind each of the victims. Some were random, others targeted. Hob feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner quite a few of them resembled Dream's mortal form. But he had been preoccupied with other things at the time.

One particular tale catches Hob's interest though.

"Wait, so the man you killed the night we met…he was also a criminal?" Hob asks, shocked.

"Oh yeah, big religious type, set fire to a bunch of people's houses he didn't like, put his son in the hospital for being gay even though he had a thing for guys himself, real charmer," The Corinthian shrugs. "He was fleeing an assault and arson charge in the US. I thought he was interesting so I followed him. He ended up being a huge disappointment though. All that rage and he ended up begging for his life when someone stronger came along.” Hob snorts at the distaste in The Corinthian’s tone.

"Wow," Hob says. "I was so concerned about you coming for my head next I didn't even think about looking up an obituary or anything like that."

The Corinthian grins. "Good, he was boring. I was a much better use of your thoughts."

Hob can’t disagree with that. “So, by the time you and I met, you were already bored with regular murdering?”

The Corinthian hums. "Not quite bored , but definitely looking for variety. Which I found a lot of with you."

"Makes sense.” Hob agrees. “I was really prepared to try harder to convince you to stay with me here."

"Hard to say no with the bargain you gave me.” The Corinthian shrugs as if it were an easy decision. It gives Hob a warm feeling, like they were always inevitable for each other.

Hob knows his next line of questioning is going to upset the blond. "And then when you went back…"

The Corinthian's expression sours like curdled milk.

“Nothing worked,” The Corinthian grates. “I tried criminals, I tried total innocents, I even tried to be as depraved as possible, nothing worked .” A pause. “Sorry if that relapse disappoints you,” he finishes moodily.

“Hey, hey, no, you're here,” Hob reassures the blond. “I mean yes, I am extremely unhappy that you went off and did all that…but you know I've done bad things too.”

“You didn't know they were bad at the time,” The Corinthian grumbles. "You said everyone else was doing it. How could you know?"

“No…I think I did. I just refused to see the humanity in other people who didn't look like me,” Hob admits. It's an ugly truth he's had to face over and over again over the years. Society has made progress for sure on that front, but Hob still sees old attitudes creep up from time to time, passed down generations like an old blood stain that fades but is never truly gone.

“And anyways," Hob continues. "You're something other than human, it's more of a challenge for you to emphasize, me enslaving my fellow man, woman, and even children for money though…”

“No,” The Corinthian says with finality. “We're not comparing bad deeds Hob. We'll be here all day. They happened, and you’ve been atoning for them in a variety of ways, least of all, trying to reign in a rogue nightmare…I don't even know where I'd start for myself.” the blond admits.

“I'm sure Dream has a few ideas,” Hob replies.

“Dream tried to unmake me,” The Corinthian bites.

“And now he won't. So he probably has some ideas. And if he doesn't, then he has a good friend to help him come up with some.” Hob pats himself on the shoulder.

“I'm sure that's a conflict of interest Hob,” The Corinthian says.

Hob then hears something he hasn't heard in a while. It's a quiet "tsk"-ing noise, followed by a small click and he knows for a fact it did not come from The Corinthian's primary mouth.

"Cory, did you just roll your eyes at me?" Hob asks, fake offended.

The Corinthian just smiles and says nothing.

"You little shit," Hob laughs, then kisses the blond.

Eventually, Hob's stomach grumbles and it's all the motivation they need to get out of bed. Hob knows for a fact that he hasn’t moved anything around in his flat since The Corinthian left, but the blond still decides to sift through Hob’s drawers instead of his own for something to wear. It makes something possessive curl in Hob’s stomach, to see The Corinthian wearing his clothes.

Hob takes over the conversation while preparing fried eggs and toast. While The Corinthian had been able to see all of Hob's memories via his eyes, Hob still prefers to relay his own experience to the blond himself, and The Corinthian seems more at ease talking about Hob’s experiences than his own. Or, more accurately, he seems to take more delight in poking fun at Hob’s more embarrassing experiences, such as his raging jealousy of William Shakespeare in the 1600s.

“I can’t believe you tried to feed Dream duck, and he ditched you for a poet, ” The Corinthian laughs.

“Ugh, I’m still mad about it. I had enough food for a whole dinner party! He ate none of it ,” Hob groans. “I don’t care how revered old Shaxberd turned out, that was one of the most embarrassing nights of my life. Here’s your eggs, did you want anything on them?”

“Hot sauce?” The Corinthian asks, perking up. Hob rolls his eyes.

“ Americans.”

The Corinthian gets his hot sauce. He drowns his eggs in them, and then dips the toast in the mixture of egg yolk and sauce. It’s nauseating. The things Hob does for love.

Hob does feel a bit bad about not having a set of eyeballs for The Corinthian to consume along with eggs, but the blond just snorts when he mentions it.

“My diet is not exclusively eyeballs, Hob.” The Corinthian says.

“I know but they always made you so happy!” Hob explains. The Corinthian mumbles something under his breath that Hob doesn’t catch. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I'm happy to just have breakfast made by you again.” The Corinthian stabs at his egg and hot sauce mush with his fork as if the admission physically pained him to admit.

“Aw, Cory,” Hob coos. “I’ll make breakfast for you every day.” He would too. Terrible hot sauce and all. Hob may or may not have added the infernal ingredient to some of his meals that last two years just to give himself a reminder of the blond.

“You’re lucky I love you,” The Corinthian grumbles in response. “You’re so sappy, it’s gross.”

“Oh, you should ask what Johanna has to say about that,” Hob replies.

They settle into a comfortable silence after that. The Corinthian finishes his breakfast relatively quickly and then moves his chair next to Hob’s so he can nestle into the immortal’s shoulder. Hob thinks it’s adorable but decides not to say anything for now. If The Corinthian is touch starved and wants to cuddle up to him as much as possible, Hob’s not going to ruin the moment by pointing it out.

Hob still has end of term papers to grade though, so once he’s finished his breakfast, he takes the dishes to the sink and starts to make a kettle of tea. Luckily, none of the essays were permanently damaged when The Corinthian and Dream had blown into his apartment like a tornado the night before. Even though Hob could reprint anything that got damaged, that would require going to the university, and he doesn’t want to leave The Corinthian for anything if he can help it.He still can’t believe his lover is really here after all this time.

“Tell me about Rose Walker,” Hob says once they’ve settled on the couch with tea and Hob’s papers.

The Corinthian does. He explains to Hob how dream vortexes are born, how there’s no real explanation for why they come into being, and the reason why they’re so dangerous to the fabric of reality. He also explains why he wanted to get to Rose so badly. It’s heartbreaking. Hob puts down the essay he’s grading and pulls the blond into a tight hug.

“All this time, I didn’t know how scared you were of Dream,” Hob says. “I should’ve pushed you more about the identity of your creator but…”

“Yeah, I saw, Dream didn’t take too kindly to being told he was someone’s friend. ” The Corinthian’s ocular mouths release that soft clicking noise that tells Hob he’s rolling his eyes. “It worked out that Dream being a dick made you afraid to ask more questions about me.”

“I suppose it did,” Hob agrees reluctantly. “Would you have told me his identity if I’d asked?”

“I…I’m not sure,” The Corinthian admits. “There was always just something that made me not want to.”

“Might be just another trait you inherited from him,” Hob teases. “Maybe all your fellow dreams and nightmares were under strict orders to never reveal Dream’s name to me.”

“Oh please, almost none of them even knew you existed. Dream kept your meetings such a secret, he nearly unmade me when I found out about you.”

“He what?” Hob exclaims, aghast. “Why would he do that?”

The Corinthian shrugs. “He’s pretty possessive of you. I didn’t understand it before, but I sure as hell do now.” The admission warms Hob’s heart, but he’s still having a hard time reconciling the aloof and distant way Dream treated him in the past with the overly possessive way he guarded his meetings to the residents of his realm.

“Hmm…he sure had a funny way of showing it, all things considered,” Hob replies. “At least, back then. When we met after he escaped from the Burgess estate, he was…different. A lot more open and affectionate for sure.” Despite himself, Hob smiles at the memory.

“Really now?” The Corinthian asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Were you cheating on me with my maker, Hob Gadling?”

“Oh, hush, like you have room to talk!” Hob swats at The Corinthian’s shoulder playfully. “But no, nothing happened, all we did was hold hands…and well, then the news came on and ruined the mood.”

“Let me guess, news coverage of me?” The Corinthian says, pride evident in his voice.

“Hey don’t look so smug about that, I was worried about you, you prick!”

The Corinthian laughs. “I can’t help it. But oh, I didn’t tell you, there was a whole cult dedicated to me that I found out about in the States!”

“A cult,” Hob repeats, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Yes, with a whole convention and everything, they invited me to be their Keynote speaker.” The Corinthian confirms. Hob thinks The Corinthian should not be proud that he inspired an entire cult of murderers, not when they worked so hard for him to not be needlessly killing but…it is a rather impressive feat. After all, only the most infamous serial killers had followings. He won’t admit that out loud though.

“Who the hell is hosting a convention for actual murderers?” Hob says instead, exasperated.

“Well, it was called The Cereal Convention. You know, C-E-R-E-A-L,” The Corinthian supplies.

Hob groans. “Excuse me, that pun has no business being that clever, I’m offended.”

They look at each other and then both burst out laughing. They don’t stop for at least ten minutes, and Hob is wheezing from the effort. The Corinthian, on the other hand, has the audacity of being a literal nightmare who doesn’t need to breathe, and laughs even harder once Hob starts struggling to reclaim his hold on oxygen. Eventually, once Hob insists that he absolutely needs to calm down, they settle into a comfortable silence.

Hob’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve ever been domestic like this, lounging on his couch, wrapped in blankets, and The Corinthian making snide comments about some of his students’ writing styles from time to time.

“Do you think he’ll be coming back today?" The Corinthian asks when Hob decides to take a break, a few hours later.

Hob shrugs. “He didn’t say. Ugh, it still doesn't sit right with me, that Dream has to kill someone so young,” he laments.

“There's no other way. There’s never been any other way.” The Corinthian replies.

“No other way, before , remember, Dream's changed. He'll find a way to fix things without killing a young girl. I'm sure of it.” Hob’s not sure why he has such faith in Dream, but he does. The Corinthian, on the other hand, understandably, does not. It will take more than just a single heart to heart to undo all the damage between them. Hob’s patient though. He’ll walk them both through it if he has to.

—

They make love again later that night. It's as soft as their lovemaking the night before, if not more so because this time, The Corinthian is the one inside of Hob, their foreheads pressed together in a gentle rhythm. Hob tilts his head up to bestow a light kiss to The Corinthian’s left eye, causing the blond to gasp. He snaps his hips hard into Hob, and the immortal curses loudly when it hits his prostate just right.

"Fucking Christ, Cory do that again," Hob growls and The Corinthian obliges immediately, driving his hips into Hob at a punishing pace.

Hob thinks The Corinthian is the most lovely in his reactions to tenderness. It's like watching a dam burst under the pressure of a storm, or a star explode into a supernova. The Corinthian may not have been originally created to love or to be loved, but he still absorbs it like parched soil soaks up rain. Hob would give this beautiful creature everything and more, just for the pleasure of seeing his reactions.

When The Corinthian touches the spot on Hob’s chest where he carved his name all those years ago, the skin lights up, shocking both of them.

"Fucking Mary's tits!" Hob yells, grasping at his collarbone. The pain is something fierce he’s never felt before, so much so that he doesn’t feel The Corinthian slip out of him. He’s still clutching at what he expects is some sort of burn mark when The Corinthian moves his hands away to inspect the damage to Hob’s person.

“I'm sorry I have no idea what happened I didn't mean to…” The blond cuts off, suddenly silent.

“What? Is it that bad?” Hob asks. Do they need burn cream? Is this the sort of thing that could be treated with burn cream?

“I've…bound myself to you,” The Corinthian whispers, astonished. He traces his fingertips over the burn spot, and Hob feels a shiver go straight down his spine. He looks down at himself and sees The Corinthian’s name outlined in gold on his chest. Hob runs his own fingers along the mark, and The Corinthian gasps and shakes as if run through with a live wire.

“What…what does this mean Cory?” Hob asks, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “Binding sounds like enslavement and you know I don't want-”

“No, it's different,” The Corinthian reassures, and thank God for that. Hob doesn’t want to think about the semantics of accidental supernatural slavery. Johanna would have his head. Dream would have his head.

“It's old magic,” The Corinthian explains. “It allows…it allows you to call out to me from within The Dreaming. The mark here," he points to the bed, "is a protective measure, to keep other nightmares away from your dreams. The mark on your shoulder means you need only call out to me in your dreams and I will go to you."

Christ. The idea of having access to The Corinthian from within his dreams, to be able to call out to him from within the Dreaming, when Hob’s never had a lucid dream in his entire immortal life, gives Hob an indescribable feeling of warmth and softness.

“So, if I understand correctly,” Hob begins. “Whenever I'm having a bad dream, I only need to call for you and you'll come?”

“You shouldn't be having bad dreams in the first place,” The Corinthian grumbles. “The mark-”

“I know, Cory, but you can't hide me from my bad memories,” Hob interjects. “Those will always stay with me, whether there’s a nightmare to trigger them or not. But at least now I know you can wake me up if I get too lost in them.”

“It's…not quite like that,” The Corinthian says, suddenly shy.

“No?”

“I…if you call me, I would be able to take you to a safer place in The Dreaming. To…wherever it is I'd consider home.”

Home.

The Corinthian had told him he hadn't felt like The Dreaming was home since at least 1916, when Dream had tried to unmake the blond. If this mark means what Hob thinks it means then...

“Feeling homesick are we?” Hob can’t help but tease.

“Shut up it's not…it isn't like that.” And isn’t that adorable? The Corinthian is pouting so it definitely means what Hob thinks it means.

“Hmmm I think it is, pet.” Hob says, as conclusively as he can manage. “Otherwise this thing would've come about a lot sooner with the way we fuck.”

The Corinthian’s response is to try to smother Hob with his own pillows. Rude. They wrestle in the sheets for a while and naturally Hob is the first one out of breath. It’s truly a miracle he was ever able to spar with the blond. The wonders of a fight or flight response.

“I'm glad, you know.” Hob says once they’ve called a truce on their pillow fight. “That you and Dream have made up. And that's not just me being selfish, I swear. But you were always so sad when you used to talk about him.”

“I wasn't sad,” The Corinthian replies. “I was…angry,” he finally admits.

“Which is really just another facet of sadness.” Hob replies. “ And why wouldn't you be? There's so much history between you two. More so than with me and him, and I fell for him even so.”

“I guess…”

“Look, I know I said we'd talk about things more today, but if you need to ruminate more that's okay too,” Hob says as placatingly as possible. He can see and feel the tension melt off The Corinthian’s face and shoulders.

“Thank you,” the blond says.

“In the meantime, I'll try not to abuse having access to you in the Dreaming, I don't want you to shirk your duties on my behalf.”

“I don’t care if you abuse it, I love you, I’ll come whenever you call.”

Hob smiles. “Tell me again, love.”

“I love you.” The Corinthian repeats and kisses him. Hob knows he won’t ever get tired of hearing it.

“I love you too.”

—

“What do you know about polyamory, Cory?” Hob asks two days later when they’re rewatching season 2 of Hannibal.

The Corinthian wrinkles his nose. "That thing the Mormons do?"

“No no, that’s polygamy, an entirely different concept, and also I’m pretty sure the entire religion doesn’t practice it.” Hob says. He takes a deep breath to prepare for his next sentence.

“Polyamory is, well, it's when more than two people are involved in a committed relationship with one another. It’s actually become more popular in the last few decades, especially in queer relationships.” Although, more popular did not exactly mean common , per say, but Hob’s pretty certain that neither Dream nor The Corinthian really care about outdated standards for traditional relationships. Johanna had been in few multi-partner relationships over the years as well, and Hob’s been texting her on and off asking about logistics on them. Johanna had sent over a lot of emojis and exclamation points. She also called him “a man with zero survival instincts, immortality be damned.” But she was helping nonetheless.

The Corinthian has a thoughtful look on his face as he digests Hob’s explanation. “Okay, I’ll bite, why are we talking about this?”

“You really don’t know?”

The Corinthian sighs, rather dramatically in Hob’s opinion, and then maneuvers himself so that his head is sitting on Hob’s lap. Hob looks down fondly at the blond, who has not worn his glasses the entire time he’s been in the flat. There’s a bit of tension in the way The Corinthian’s eye mouths grit their teeth, but the rest of the nightmare’s face seems more curious than anything else.

“I guess now’s as good a time as any to talk about it,” The Corinthian says. Hob can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant, but the immortal knows better. It seems silly to him that someone otherwise so confident would be so insecure when it came to their relationship, but then wonders never cease, Hob supposes.

“Look this is not something you need to make a decision on now, but something to think about, before you go back with Dream,” Hob says. He runs his fingers through the blond’s hair, soothingly. It has the intended effect and The Corinthian’s eyes flutter shut, finally relaxing fully.

“Who says I’m going back?”

Hob just smiles. He swears he feels the mark react as well. He leans his head down to press a kiss first to The Corinthian’s left ocular mouth, then the right.

“I thought we said no more lying, darling,” he whispers to them.

The Corinthian sighs happily through all three mouths and shudders. “Ok fine, let’s talk then.”

“Is it something you want?” Hob asks. “To be in a relationship with not just me, but your maker as well?”

“It sounds like something you want,” The Corinthian replies far too quickly.

Hob hums. “It is. But, if it isn’t something you want, then I don’t need it. Our relationship is complete with just me and you. I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”

The Corinthian surges up to kiss Hob instead of responding. They kiss until Hob’s neck starts to bother him, and The Corinthian whines as he pulls away to unstrain his neck.

“Now…that being said,” Hob picks up from before. “It’s pretty clear Dream’s already part of this relationship in some way, just because of how entwined our lives are with him. If you want to keep things the way they are, we can, but I also feel that we can have something more.”

“But what if…” The Corinthian pauses, unsure. “What if he doesn’t want it?”

“Then that’s fine too,” Hob shrugs. “He’s allowed to not want to become involved with us for whatever reason.”

“And then what if he only wants you and not me?” The Corinthian demands.

Hob laughs. “Darling, I told you, he loves you. And there’s nothing that will keep me from you. Maybe I met Dream first, maybe I had romantic feelings for him first, but I loved you first, Corinthian.” The Corinthian visibly shudders at the use of his full name, and Hob takes the opportunity to gently push the blond upwards into a sitting position so Hob doesn’t have to strain his neck to kiss him. It only takes a little bit of maneuvering to get The Corinthian fully in his lap from there.

“You left your mark on me, a golden tattoo for everyone to see,” Hob whispers in The Corinthian’s ear. “I've made my commitment to you and I'm sticking with it, so please stop worrying your pretty head about things that won't ever happen.” The Corinthian keens at a pitch Hob knows humans cannot normally reach. Hob tightens his arms around the blond and nuzzles his face against The Corinthian’s neck. They sit there quietly for a few minutes, simply enjoying the intimacy.

“Yes,” The Corinthian finally says, gasping. “Yes I want you, I want him, I want everything. ”

Hob smiles and kisses The Corinthian again, long and slow. “I figured you might. Well then, now that we’re in agreement, how do you want to go about things?”

“Ugh I don’t know," The Corinthian groans. "I feel like I don’t even know him as he is right now.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start. Getting to know one another.”

“What, like dates?” The Corinthian asks incredulously.

“Exactly like dates!” Hob confirms enthusiastically. “And hugs. Lots of hugs. Maybe some hand holding too.”

“You’re such a sap.” The Corinthian's tone is deprecating but Hob can feel the fondness underneath.

“A sap that you love!”

–

When Hob goes to sleep that night, he wakes up in a field of green.

It's peaceful here. He knows he's never been in a place quite like this in the world and yet it feels like home. Hob can hear babbling brooks and waterfalls, can smell the wildflowers in bloom, and can taste the crispness of the air. He lies in the grass, enjoying the feel of the blades between his toes (He’s barefoot? Neat.).

There’s a crunch in the grass, an unknown amount of time later and Hob sits up suddenly at the sound. Someone is approaching. He should stand up and greet them, he thinks. It feels like he should.

Hob scrambles to a standing position just as he recognizes the figure approaching him.

"Dream,” Hob whispers, awed. Dream is different here, he’s somehow more radiant, more present, more everything. Hob feels as though he is looking upon an angel, no, a god, no…he knows the word now.

Endless.

"Hello, Hob,” Dream greets him. His smile, though small, is warm and absolutely breathtaking. Does he need to breathe here?

"This is…this is the Dreaming, isn't it?" It’s so relaxing, Hob can’t imagine he’s anywhere else. He feels lightheaded, almost floaty. His thoughts come and go like wisps of smoke. It's almost like being high on hallucinogens, but not quite.

"It is, my friend,” Dream confirms, stepping closer to stand directly in front of him. “And I see you're now able to walk freely amongst it."

Dream is very pointedly staring at Hob's chest and then the immortal suddenly remembers the mark The Corinthian gave him. Hob looks down at his collarbone and the mark is giving off a brilliant glow. It’s so bright Hob is sure it could be seen from the sky, no, from space.

“Oh shit, I didn't know it could do that!” Hob exclaims. “Is…is that normal?”

“Only in the Dreaming,” Dream confirms, and thank God for that. Hob’s not sure how he’d hide the thing if it glowed like that all the time when he was awake. “You have been marked by one of its most powerful residents, so naturally the mark's radiance will reflect the strength of its originator.”

“Wow uhm…that's pretty crazy,” Hob says, unsure of what else he can add to this conversation. He’s never had a lucid dream before tonight, and he’s feeling rather discombobulated.

Dream touches the mark. Hob swears he was wearing a shirt prior to this exact moment, but now he is very much shirtless in front of Dream. He thinks he should be self conscious about this. He’s not. He's far too focused on the fact that Dream is touching him , and if he thought touch in the waking world felt electric between them, touching in the Dreaming feels like he's unlocked a whole new sense, just for this.

“This mark is old…and yet new,” Dream notes, tracing pale fingertips along the curves and lines of The Corinthian's name “ How curious. ”

"Uh yeah…" Hob swallows thickly. "When Cory first started living with me, he actually explained a bit to me about how the mark works. He meant to only carve it on my bedpost at first to keep out nightmares but then…you know, we got a bit carried away…"

Dream raises an eyebrow. "I see. The Corinthian is not known for taking half measures so I suppose that makes sense.” He moves his hand away from Hob's chest and somehow Hob does not whine, just exhales a breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

“Uh…yeah, exactly that.” Hob confirms, dizzy from the interaction. “But it healed over back then, and only just recently appeared the way it did.”

Dream's expression softens significantly. “He has reclaimed his place in the Dreaming then.” Dream sounds…relieved? And maybe a little happy, Hob thinks. “He had previously cut ties with it, which is why I had chased him into the Waking.” Dream does not mention that he had no intention of bringing his creation back with him.

“He did say that," Hob says. "He also said I could…call out to him here?”

“You could…if he were currently in the Dreaming.” Dream replies, a faraway look now in his eyes. “As it stands, he lies next to you in your home in London.” Dream purses his lips. “I imagine he has realized I am speaking with you.”

“Oh uh…is that going to make things awkward?” Hob asks sheepishly. He looks around as if expecting The Corinthian to pop up out of the grass like a weed.

“He has not come storming through Fiddler's Green to claim you, another curious matter,” Dream replies, thoughtful. “I would have expected him to be more cautious of our interactions, lest I attempt to turn you against him.”

“Ha, Cory said the same thing you know. I had to spend some time trying to convince him my loyalty doesn't flip that easily, no offense Dream.” Hob expects his oldest friend to at least take some offense, but instead, Dream simply looks confused.

“That name…” Dream says, puzzlement clear in his voice.

“What na-Oh you mean Cory?” Hob asks.

“His name is The Corinthian…and yet…”

“Yes well, The Corinthian is a bit of a mouthful," Hob explains. "Plus if you recall from our aborted meeting, the name Corinthian is a tad infamous around the mortal world, and I needed to not draw attention to ourselves. Ergo, Cory.”

Dream hums. “The Corinthian has never been one for nicknames, and yet you give him one so easily accepted.”

“Oh, that's not true and you know it Dream,” Hob accuses.

“What do you mean?” Dream asks.

“My little nightmare? That's a nickname if I've ever heard one.”

“I…suppose so,” Dream concedes.

“Or do you call all your nightmares that?” Hob asks. He knows Dream doesn’t, but he wants to hear his friend admit it.

“No…you are correct. I had forgotten about that aspect of our relationship. To our detriment it seems.” Dream sounds rather melancholy about this, and Hob has to stop himself from smiling at that fact.

“Well, there's no rule saying you can't start again,” Hob says, chipper. “I think he’d really like it.”

Dream looks taken aback. “You are certain of this?” he asks, and there’s just the slightest amount of naked hope in his tone. Hob wants to hug him, but he holds himself back.

“With the way he was shaking when you said it the other night? Absolutely,” Hob confirms. “Which, by the way, I don't want to press but…are you coming back?”

“In time, ” Dream replies. “I need to work on rebuilding the realm. And I must collect my thoughts. I do not wish to cause a further rift in our relationship. I have…many relationships to repair in my realm it seems.” Dream has that faraway look in his face again. Hob wants to ask more but something tells him he’s about to wake up. Once he figures out how time works here, he’ll ask as many questions as he can of Dream and how his realm works. For now, he’s focused on just helping repair the relationship between The Corinthian and Dream.

“All right, well you know where to find us,” Hob says. “Take your time, but not too long, okay?”

“Of course. Thank you for your time Hob. This dream is over.”

Hob wakes to The Corinthian's eye mouths right above his own eyes.

“Hey you,” Hob whispers, then pulls The Corinthian down for a kiss.

“You looked like you were having a good dream," The Corinthian says.

“Mmmm yes. It would've been nicer if you dropped in too,” Hob says.

“Not yet,” The Corinthian replies. “You were right, he and I need to talk, just us first. There are things we need to resolve first before…before we try to do something new.”

Hob smiles. “Well, he said he'd be by soon once things settle down. Let's do a bit of tidying up while we wait so he comes back to a clean home, yeah?”

#hobrinthian #hobrintheus #sandman fanfic #seiya writes #the sandman #mystuff #seiya writes hobrinthian #seiya writes hobrintheus

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seiya-starsniper · 2 years ago

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and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 4

Link on AO3 [here]

Chapter Summary: Time for more angst for our poor boy Cory before he gets to reunite with Hob. But what will he do if Dream finds him first?

Also this chapter is now rated Explicit for events that happen in this chapter >:)

The Corinthian eats and eats, but it's not enough. It will never be enough. He can still taste Hob at the back of his tongue. He was determined to wash the taste of the immortal from his mouth but none of his meals stick around long enough. It’s the best and worst thing to ever happen to him.

He’s been gone for almost a year now and the hunger inside him is worse than it had ever been before he’d moved in with Hob.

Some days he lays around in his penthouse, aimless and drunk. Other days he drives with no destination in mind, picking up hitchhikers and leaving their bodies in cheap motels and gas station bathrooms, if he’s feeling creative. He’s reclaimed his reputation stateside after going dark for almost a decade while he lived in London with Hob. All the media outlets in the UK had thought he was just a vigilante copycat whenever they found the bodies of the criminals he and Hob hunted. It made sense, considering his M.O. was different across the pond, but it had still hurt the blond’s pride.

Tonight, he’s picked up two friends at a nightclub, two men who are disgustingly in love with one another, but seem oblivious to one another’s feelings. It’s all too easy for The Corinthian to flirt first with one, then both, and then his suggestion of a threesome is met with far too much eagerness. They drag him from the club to their shared apartment only a few blocks away.

The sex is about what he expects. They do focus on his needs at first and The Corinthian gets his orgasm, but eventually the two friends end up far too engrossed in one another, ignoring him entirely. It makes it too easy for The Corinthian to go for his knives hidden in the pile of discarded clothing. He stabs them both at the same time, making sure to go for the neck to minimize screaming. The apartments in America have such thin walls, after all.

It’s almost sad, watching the two of them reach for one another, gurgling on their own blood, trying to be close even in death. If he were a better creature, he’d kill them both now to spare having one watch the other be dissected prior to death. But he’s not a better creature, no matter how much Hob tried to guide him that way. And his mission tonight is to forget Hob. He knows it won’t work. But he still tries anyway.

The Corinthian eats his way through a happy ending the two men imagined with one another before they came across him and nearly vomits up his dinner.

–

He feels Dream’s release from the Burgess basement like a leash has suddenly been pulled taut and tight on his neck.

He’s glad that Hob isn’t around for the experience. He wouldn't have been able to hide the terror of his unmaking. He knows the immortal would have been willing to fight his creator to keep him alive, at least, until he realized who exactly Dream was. The Corinthian tells himself it was better that he left Hob before Hob could leave him. He could spare Hob the pain of having to choose between them, especially when they both knew he’d choose Dream. The Corinthian knows it wasn’t intentional, but he feels like a pathetic substitute for his creator.

The Corinthian is glad he kept track of the Burgess estate and the events that unfolded after Dream’s capture. Ethel escaping and disappearing with Dream's tools had been an unexpected boon in The Corinthian’s favor. He thinks he might be able to convince her to use them against him. It wouldn’t be hard. They’re powerful tools and they blessed Roderick himself with riches he could only previously dream of. Humans are selfish like that. Ethel would be no different, she'd want to keep her and her son’s life intact.

The Corinthian is in full survival mode now that Dream is out. He needs to make sure Dream doesn't catch up to him.

–

Going to Ethel did not work out as well as he had hoped. It’s been a long time since his body’s been completely destroyed to be reformed back in the Dreaming. He’s gotten sloppy in the years he’s been away from Hob, he thinks. Americans shirk the idea of magic a lot more easily than the Europeans do so The Corinthian had not been expecting a protection amulet of all things to be on Ethel Cripp’s person. He’s pretty sure he’s blown his only chance at getting the tools now.

“Oh good, you’ve returned,” Lucienne greets. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve been forced back here, I was starting to get worried. His Lordship will be pleased.”

Fuck. He needs to leave before Dream realizes he’s here.

“Where is Dream?” he asks, hoping he comes off as nonchalant.

“He’s away. Again. For the moment.”

Good. He still has time. The Corinthian thinks he knows exactly what his master is doing. It’s what he was doing before Ethel decided to blow him to pieces.

"Well then, I’d better get a move on."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the Waking World. To Freedom. You should try it sometime." He knows she won't.

"Have you no loyalty to your creator?" Lucienne bites at him angrily.

“Why should I? He has no loyalty to us.”

"You misunderstand him, Corinthian." Lucienne. Lucienne. Still loyal to a fault, he sees.

"Oh no, I see him for what he is." The Corinthian responds, not even bothering to hide his disdain. "He doesn’t give a fuck about you or me. He only cares about himself. His kingdom. Well, he can have it. Cause I am leaving and I am never coming back."

The Ethel Cripps route didn’t work out for him. But maybe he can still get to Dream’s tools before his master can.

—

For the first time in centuries, a dream vortex has been born.

The Corinthian feels her powers awaken like a hurricane. She’s powerful. More powerful than any previous vortex.. She could bring down the walls between The Dreaming and the Waking. Her name is Rose Walker. The Corinthian is drawn to her like a moth to a raging inferno.

Before he knows it, an idea starts bubbling in the back of his mind. If he can get to Rose before Dream, he can talk to her, convince her to use her powers to take over the Dreaming, to take down Dream before he can take her. She’s young for a human. Barely an adult. She’ll want to live. She probably has family she wants to keep alive too. It shouldn’t be too hard.

If he can get Rose on his side, he can stop Dream from unmaking him. He could get her to stop Hob from leaving him to be with Dream instead. He could convince Rose to build him a new little corner in the universe, where only he and Hob exist, where nothing and no one can touch them and then The Corinthian can finally, truly, be absolutely free.

The possibilities are endless.

—

The Collectors find him before he finds Rose. The Corinthian is not pleased one bit at how pathetic the copycat attempts were, but his sour mood lightens when he realizes they just wanted his attention.

The idea of a serial killer convention is hilarious to him. He thinks that Hob would've loved this sort of thing, if only to take so many unrelenting murderers down in one fell swoop. The Corinthian imagines all the ways they'd hunt the hundred or so attendees. It would probably start slow, a few missing attendees here and there, so as not to bring suspicion right away. Then Hob could enter during the Keynote Speech The Corinthian was just invited to give, and then they'd smile at each other before Hob would lock the doors and unleash Hell.

Hob probably would've been less thrilled that all the attendees had been inspired to follow their dreams of death and carnage towards innocents because of The Corinthian, and that was why he was invited to give the Keynote. The Corinthian himself is conflicted. In a time where he didn't meet Hob, he knows the idea of a cult following would thrill him to no end. A small part of him is thrilled at the idea of a fanclub.

But it still feels empty. Like he felt every time he killed for the sake of trying to feel something. Being with Hob has made him realize killing for the sake of killing was not satisfying, would never be satisfying. At least, not in the long term. All he had been doing was trying to fill in a hole that continued to stay empty, no matter how much he tried.

A cult of followers is a poor substitute for his relationship to Hob, but it'll have to do, for now, until he can convince Rose to kill Dream. But first he has to find her.

—

The Corinthian knows this is it. This is the end of the line. He’s tried and failed at every attempt to destroy Dream once and for all. Deep down though, he knows for all the contempt he holds for his creator, he could probably never pull that last trigger. He hates the thought, especially when he remembers Dream did not hesitate to try to unmake him back in 1916.

In his last moments, he thinks of Hob.

I want to see him . The Corinthian thinks desperately. If I have to die now, just let me see him one last time. He pictures Hob’s flat in his mind’s eye, warm and inviting. The Corinthian wonders why he ever left. Maybe they could’ve worked something out after all. Maybe they still can.

And then suddenly The Corinthian is in Hob’s flat with his creator.

“Cory?! And Dream?! What the fuck?” Hob yells from his couch where he’s clearly been grading papers. Papers that are now scattered all over the floor from the force of their supernatural entry.

The Corinthian does not waste a second. He rushes from his spot on the floor towards Hob as fast as he can manage and tugs the man into a desperate kiss. It feels like rain after a drought.

It's over too soon because Dream yanks him back from Hob so hard he feels his brain rattle around in his head.

"You dare impose yourself upon my friend?" his creator growls angrily. "Insolent creature, I will unmake you just for this.”

“No Dream, wait!” Hob yells, and Dream somehow listens and looks at his friend.

“I do not know why he chose to run to you Hob, but whatever lies The Corinthian has told you,” Dream says, slowly. “I can assure you that he-”

“He’s the one I told you about before!” Hob interrupts. Dream’s eyes are now so wide The Corinthian would laugh if he weren’t fearing for his own life.

“The Corinthian is the lover you mentioned earlier to me? The one who spurned you with no warning, nor reason? Your lover of ten years ?” And wow, The Corinthian thought he had heard Dream angry before, but he’s never heard it quite like this. If The Corinthian had any doubt about Dream's feelings towards Hob before, well. He definitely feels some sort of way about their relationship and it is decidedly not good. What the hell had Hob told Dream anyways? And why had he even said anything at all?

Dream’s hands are now in his hair and he’s pulling so hard The Corinthian thinks he’s going to be scalped by his bare hands. “Explain yourself, Corinthian. Before I unmake you, you will explain this grievous deception of my dear friend.”

“I didn’t know!” The Conthrian bites out, struggling futilely against Dream's monstrous hold. “I didn’t know he was your stupid mortal! If I knew I wouldn’t have…” but he doesn’t finish because the look on Hob’s face is enough to know that’s not true. Hob would’ve attracted The Corinthian regardless of whether he knew the man's true identity or not. In fact, the knowledge may have even made him want Hob more in the beginning.

“Wouldn’t have done what, Corinthian?” Dream demands, forcing The Corinthian to break his focus on the immortal.

“You can’t say it, can you Cory?” Hob asks, and when the Corinthian turns to look at him again, his eyes are so gentle, so damn forgiving. It makes The Corinthian want to scream so he does.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up Hob!” He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, not after everything he’s done. He’s beginning to regret wanting to come here.

Dream’s hands somehow grip him even tighter. “You dare raise your voice-”

“Dream!” Hob interrupts. “Please let him go. Please, you’re hurting him.” Hob is begging now, which seems to confuse Dream enough that he loosens his hold on The Corinthian’s scalp ever so slightly, but it doesn't last. Dream renews his hold mere seconds later and the room seems to grow colder, darker. His maker is angry now.

“Hurting him? He has been wreaking havoc on the Waking World, murdering others for sport, and with no consideration for human life. He must be brought to heel, and unmade.” Well, this is it. At least the last thing he’ll see before his unmaking is Hob. He just wishes his old lover didn’t look so heartbroken, but beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes.

Hob is quiet for a beat. “Please, Morpheus, Dream, old friend. Don't take the love of my life away from me,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

Love of my life? Had The Corinthian heard him correctly? Surely, Hob can't be referring to him?

The Corinthian, who is flawed, broken, unwanted by his own creator, filled with a bloodlust he can’t ever sate, a being born to be contrary and more importantly, impossible to love. Hob can’t possibly think such a cruel and broken creature worthy to be deemed the love of his life.

Could he?

"Y-you?" The Corinthian gasps. He has to know. "You still want me?"

“Oh darling,” Hob says, so kindly it makes The Corinthian want to weep. “Of course I still want you. I'll always want you.”

And the confession must startle something in Dream because his grip on The Corinthian goes completely slack, and the blond takes full advantage and rushes straight back to Hob, nearly bowling the entire couch over with the strength of it.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," The Corinthian chants it like a prayer. Like he's making up for all the times he was too afraid to say it before, like he'll never get another chance if he doesn't make up for all that lost time now. He has no pride now, and he must look pathetic, cradled in Hob’s lap and clutching at him desperately like a child. But he needs to feel all of Hob, so he wraps as much of his body as possible around the man and buries his face in Hob’s hair.

"I'm sorry, fuck, I'm so sorry I didn't say it before, but fuck me, I love you Hob Gadling, I love you so fucking much." He's blabbering now, he knows, but if Dream unmakes him now, he needs Hob to know how much The Corinthian has missed him, has loved him, for their entire time together.

“I know, I know darling, I love you too, I do. I'll always love you, I swear it, I swear on my own immortality I'll always love you, my one and only, my lifeline, my beautiful nightmare .”

Hob kisses him, and it’s filled with so much emotion, The Corinthian cannot help but kiss him back with his entire being. He wants and wants, but it’s impossible to completely forget that Dream is still in the room. A few kisses later, they settle, and The Corinthian turns to look upon his creator.

Dream looks shell shocked.

“I do not understand…” His master says after a time. “The Corinthian was not created to feel love and yet, I can feel it radiating from him.”

Dream seems to reach out for the two of them, then aborts the gesture. He seems deep in thought about something.

“Hob Gadling… ” Dream says. " You have changed the essence of my own creation, what sorcery is this?”

“No sorcery here, my friend,” Hob replies. ”I think he's always been capable of feeling love.”

Has he? This is news to The Corinthian. But he can feel it, surely as much as his creator feels it. He loves Hob Gadling, he’s done with denying it to himself.

“Why do you think that?” Dream asks, curious, as if Hob has presented him with a puzzle.

“Because he's yours , isn't he?” Hob says. The way Hob says it, as if Dream has as much of a claim to The Corinthian as Hob does, sparks something warm in The Corinthian’s belly. “He's your creation, so he's imbued with you, and I know you're capable of loving people so why shouldn't he?”

“Because that is not his purpose,” Dream insists.

“Oh and what exactly is his purpose, then?”

“To serve as a dark mirror to humanity. To show them all the things they are too afraid to confront for themselves.”

“I see…” Hob replies, contemplative. “Isn't change one of the darkest aspects of humanity? Probably the one which humans are most afraid to confront themselves with?”

Dream is silent which prompts Hob to continue. The Corinthian is also curious about Hob’s line of thinking so he keeps quiet for now. If Hob is willing to argue for his life to his creator, who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Keeping things the same is easy, Dream. You know this, I know this. There’s comfort in things that withstand the change of time. Confronting change is a lot more terrifying for most beings, even those less than human. Weren't you afraid just a century ago to confront our friendship?”

“You presume-”

"I do presume. Like I presumed in 1889. You were so sure you didn't need me, didn't need a human companion for friendship, but guess what? Now we're here and not that long ago you called me your friend. You've changed since we met Dream, whether you want to confront that change or not. The Dream I met in 1389 would not have called me his friend like the Dream of today. Or did you not mean it?"

“Of course I meant it,” Dream says softly. “You are correct now, as you were then,” Dream placates then adds, “My friend.”

Hob’s smile is brilliant and The Corinthian both loves how good it looks on him and hates it because it’s directed at Dream.

“Then, wouldn't it make sense that a creature meant to represent human's darkest fears, also be a creature of change himself? Shouldn't nightmares be capable of changing, of adapting…to the ever evolving human condition? Human fears change over time, Dream. When you met me, I was terrified of The Devil. Now humans don't even believe he exists! So wouldn't your nightmares need to adapt as well?"

Dream’s expression changes from confusion to thoughtful at Hob’s words.

“I concede your point there. It has come to my attention recently that many of my dreams as well as my nightmares have changed in my absence."

Hob lights up at the words.

"See? Anything you're capable of, your creations are too. They've adapted, and that's normal, admirable even. It means you've created them well." Hob then looks down at The Corinthian, fondness dancing in his eyes. "You've certainly made this one well," he says admiringly. "Maybe I’m biased, but I think Cory here is my favorite.”

That prompts a wry smile from Dream. “Of course. He is my masterpiece after all,” his creator says proudly.

Hearing that he’s Dream’s masterpiece still does something to The Corinthian’s ego. He hasn't heard pride come from Dream regarding him in a long time either, and he's not sure whether he hates it or not.

“Masterpiece, huh? So you spent the most time on him?” Hob asks.

“I did. He is one of my arcana, my most powerful nightmare.” Then, more softly. “He is my favorite, as well.”

Favorite? He was still Dream’s favorite, even after everything he’d done?

“That makes sense then,” Hob says. “He’s so much like you I should have realized it sooner.”

Like Dream? He is nothing like Dream.

“I am nothing like him,” The Corinthian hisses, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

“Oh, but you are, pet. All that pettiness and rage you hold? Comes from him, for sure. And that same interest in the human experience is what gave me my immortality after all, isn’t that right, Dream?” Hob asks.

“I-what, he doesn’t have interest in humans, he despises them-” The Corinthian starts.

“See I don’t think that’s true.” Hob interrupts. He rakes his fingers through The Corinthian’s hair, and the blond is so taut with emotion that he keens at the feeling.

“And my friend,” Hob says to Dream. “I hope you’ll forgive me for presuming, yet again , on things, but I’ve had a lot of time to think while the two of you have been gone. But when Cory first came to me, I thought he just liked eating eyes for the hell of it. But then I realized he’s able to see human memories when he eats them. Isn’t it interesting that he continues to want to eat human eyes, to want to experience humanity the only way he knows how to?”

The Corinthian has never told Hob these things, but as the immortal says them, he knows them to be true. The Corinthian is addicted to humanity, to the human experience. He wants and wants and the hunger is never ending, and he realizes now, that the hunger had only ever come to heel in the decade he spent with Hob.

“Is this true, Corinthian?” Dream asks him.

“Of course it’s true!” The Corinthian snaps. “All I've ever wanted to know was what it feels like to be human.”

The revelation hangs heavy in the air between the three of them.

“See?” Hob says, looking fondly between the two of them. “Exactly like your maker, the way the two of you just want to experience humanity.”

Dream's head snaps sharply from The Corinthian back to the immortal.

“Hob, those are not the same things,” Dream says.

“Aren’t they?” Hob challenges.

“I do not desire to feed upon human beings and hurt them!” Dream growls, but it does not deter Hob from making his point.

“No, you’re right." Hob agrees. "You don’t want to kill humans, but you long for their experiences, don’t you? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Why you and I meet every hundred years, so I can tell you what it’s like to be human because you don’t know how to experience it for yourself. It's the same desire Cory has, just a different execution Dream.” Hob says pointedly.

Dream appears to go through many emotions at once as he processes that statement. He's angry first, then contemplative, then stricken. He seems to be remembering a particularly bad memory, and The Corinthian wishes he could read his master's mind as well as his own could be read.

“You are right again, as always, my friend.” Dream finally sighs. He sounds resigned. “I am the originator of The Corinthian, and as you so aptly pointed out, his shortcomings are my shortcomings. You had once accused me of needing companionship. You were correct. I was…am lonely. And I have passed that loneliness to my greatest work.”

Dream now looks at the Corinthian, then swiftly kneels in front of the couch so they are almost eye to eye.

“My little nightmare,” Dream says and The Corinthian cannot help but whine at the nickname. He clutches at Hob’s arms for purchase, suddenly feeling unmoored. Dream notices, because, of course he does, and his creator reaches out to cup a hand to The Corinthian’s face. “All this time, I thought my mistake was that I did not give you enough love for humanity, and that is why you wandered from your purpose and began to kill in the Waking.”

The Corinthian’s entire body shakes at the intimacy between them. It has been so long since they’ve been close, so long since Dream had used a term of endearment with him. The Corinthian thought he had shed all his desires to be close to Dream, to be good for his master, but in this moment, his feelings come roaring back like a forest fire. He leans his head forward, and Dream knows what he needs. His creator delicately removes his glasses, hands them to Hob and then presses their foreheads together.

“I was wrong, though. The truth is, you love humanity too much, as I do. You love humans so much it consumes you. And so in turn, your never ending hunger drives you to consume humanity, as much as it will give you. And like your master, eventually it was no longer enough to simply devour that experience through dreams, and now here you are.”

The Corinthian feels flayed open by the revelation. Not only is he a dark mirror of humanity, but of his master as well. He had thought Dream callous, uncaring. Only concerned with ruling a kingdom with subjects he did not understand. But the truth is Dream is just as hungry as he is. More so, if The Corinthian had only received a fraction of his master’s want of humanity.

“My little nightmare,” Dream whispers. “Brought down by the same human as your master.”

And that is not what should break the dam of his emotions but it is.

The Corinthian is now sobbing openly, blood red tears staining everything. He wants to reach for Dream, but he doesn't want to let go of Hob. Dream looks up to meet Hob's eyes, and an understanding seems to pass between the two of them. He stands from his kneeling position on the floor and seats himself on the couch next to Hob, their thighs pressed together. He looks at The Corinthian expectantly.

The Corinthian can no longer take it. Hob knows what he wants before he does because before he knows it he's being shifted off the immortal's lap and into his creator's. He clings to Dream, buries his face in his jacket made of stars and night, inhales the scent of eternity from his neck.

“I'm sorry, Dream, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my lord, I'm so sorry, please I beg you-"

"Shh shh, all is forgiven." Dream calms him. "I will not unmake you, my masterpiece. We will find another way, I swear it."

Dream wraps his arms around The Corinthian then runs the back of his hand reassuringly along The Corinthian's spine. It reminds him of the day he came into creation; his master's arms enveloping him in a warm embrace, welcoming him to the dreaming, all soothing words and open affection.

Except it's different than that because Hob is also there, whispering platitudes and praise into his back. The Corinthian is pressed between his lover and his creator and he realizes there is nowhere else he would rather be.

—

They lay there, on Hob's couch, for what feels like hours. Eventually, Dream's head shoots up, and The Corinthian can tell he sensed Rose Walker entering the Dreaming.

“Rose Walker has fallen asleep.” Dream says.

“Are you still going to kill her?” The Corinthian asks and Hob’s head shoots wildly between the two of them, clearly wanting to inquire, but not knowing where to start.

“I have no choice, Corinthian. Her presence threatens the existence of The Dreaming, and humanity."

“Hmmm good luck then,” The Corinthian answers and then he moves back into Hob's lap, burrowing his face back into the other man's shoulder. “I’m staying with Hob.” Now that Dream no longer wants to unmake him, The Corinthian has lost all interest in Rose.

“You will not come with me?" Dream asks, almost scandalized. " You still look to shirk your duties-”

"If it's all the same to you, my friend," Hob interjects. "I'd selfishly like my time with Cory too. I don't know what's going on, but do whatever it is you need to do first, I promise we'll both be here when you get back.”

Dream softens. “Very well. I will return once this has been dealt with. We will continue our conversation then.”

–

After Dream leaves, Hob seems content to sit with The Corinthian in silence. Eventually though, the immortal gently nudges him.

“Love? I was kind of drinking before you and Dream showed up and I need to use the bathroom now,” he says.

The Corinthian whines when Hob shifts the blond off his lap. He knows it shouldn’t be such a big deal, but he’s been without Hob for two years. He thinks he gets to be a little bit greedy.

“I'll be back in like 10 seconds you brat!” Hob says fondly, then disappears down the hall.

When he gets back, Hob offers his hand to The Corinthian in a gesture to lift him off the couch.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

The Corinthian pads over to the kitchen and stands awkwardly at the counter while Hob pulls out mugs and begins to fill the kettle. The Corinthian notes that Hob’s kept his favorite mug.

“So do you wanna tell me what happened that night?” Hob asks once they’ve both gotten their tea. “And why exactly you ran off on me?”

The Corinthian shrugs. “It's pretty obvious, isn't it?” he asks.

“I can extrapolate, sure, but I want to hear it from you, Cory.” Hob insists.

The Corinthian has already been flayed raw tonight. What’s another revelation between them now?

“I saw Dream in your memories. And I knew I had to leave.” The Corinthian admits.

“Why? Because we were friends?”

“Because you love him!” The Corinthian almost slams his mug down but then remembers himself and decides to stare down at the tea as he chooses his next words.

“You love him still, you loved him…first.” Crap. He thought he was done with tears, thought his body wrung out, but it seems Hob can always inspire in him more emotions than he thought possible.

When The Corinthian looks up at Hob from his mug, there’s shock, then confusion all over the immortal’s face. Then, something like horror and then, inexplicably, softness.

“Oh darling, did you think I was going to leave you for Dream?” Hob asks.

“Why wouldn't you?” The Corinthian replies. The next words out of his mouth feel like chewing glass. “You said it yourself, I'm just like him. Why settle for a poor imitation when you could have the real thing?”

“You are not a poor imitation and if that's what you took from that whole conversation then you weren't listening, Cory.”

Hob sets his mug down on the counter now, and moves to stand in front of The Corinthian. He takes the blond’s face in his hands and brings it as close to his as possible.

“I love you for who you are. And yes, who you are may stem in part from Dream but it is not all that you are. You are so much more than just a simple creation to me, and I will tell you that however many times you need to hear it.” The Corinthian can see the truth and devotion in Hob’s eyes. He wonders why he ever doubted Hob. Of course Hob loves him for who he is, he’s been trying to tell the blond that this entire time, hasn’t he?

"Tell me again, then." The Corinthian does not beg, but it feels close enough.

“I'll do more than tell you, if you'll let me,” Hob whispers, and then his mouth slots into The Corinthian’s. It’s better than the kiss from earlier when The Corinthian first arrived with Dream. That kiss had been born out of desperation. It had been borne from shame. It was a kiss goodbye.

The kiss Hob gives him now is like cotton candy on a hot day in June. It’s sweet and melts in his mouth and leaves The Corinthian wanting more. Hob’s tongue prods at his lips and The Corinthian lets his mouth fall open to let it meet his own.

It feels like coming home.

“Bed?” the immortal asks in between kisses.

“Yes,” The Corinthian answers breathily. “Anywhere.”

Hob then does something he’s never done before. He bends slightly, tucks an arm behind The Corinthian’s knees, and then swoops it to lift the blond off the kitchen floor. The Corinthian flails only for a moment before wrapping his arms around Hob’s neck and burying his face in it. He inhales the scent of Hob’s sandalwood soap and sighs happily.

“All right love?” Hob asks, nosing at The Corinthian’s hair.

The Corinthian begins suckling a bruise into Hob’s neck in lieu of a response.

“Christ, all right, off we go then.” Hob does not run them to the bedroom but The Corinthian can tell the immortal is taking wide strides to make the trip short.

When they reach their destination, Hob lays him gently on their shared bed. And oh, he forgot what this bed felt like, how comfortable it was, how it bends to his body shape as if welcoming him back after a short vacation, instead of an extended absence. He can’t help but run his fingers along the sheets, to reacquaint himself with every fold and wrinkle. Hob smiles when he does this, then he takes one of the Corinthian’s hands and places a kiss to each knuckles.

“Welcome home, my love,” Hob says, and then the immortal begins the task of undressing them.

Hob has always romanticized undressing a partner. The Corinthian had never seen much point to this in the past, but after foregoing Hob for so long, he feels overwhelmed by the care Hob puts into him. Hob carefully slides the blond’s jacket from his shoulders, peppering The Corinthian’s neck with kisses at the same time. The immortal then takes The Corinthian’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to each of the ocular mouths.

“Hello darlings, have you missed me?” Hob whispers to each of them.

“Yes,” the left one whispers. “We have,” says the right one.

“I’ve missed you too,” Hob smiles before he moves back down to The Corinthian’s primary mouth and kisses him again.

The shirt comes next. Hob rucks The Corinthian’s gray shirt up to his armpits, then begins to lavish his chest with his tongue. He worries a nipple between his teeth, pinches the other between his fingers, and The Corinthian mewls at the sensation. Hob alternates his tongue and fingers between each nipple, until The Corinthian is quickly reduced to a wailing mess.

Satisfied, Hob slowly pulls the shirt completely off The Corinthian and discards it next to the bed. The Corinthian does not wait for Hob to remove his pants. He’s waited long enough, he thinks. He sits up and delivers a brutal kiss to Hob’s mouth, teeth biting down on the immortal’s lower lip until he opens his mouth and lets The Corinthian’s tongue in. The Corinthian pulls back once he’s satisfied, then shucks his pants off as quickly as he can manage before throwing them to the other side of the room.

“In a hurry are we?” Hob teases as the Corinthian reaches for his pants shortly after.

“I need you naked now, Hob,” The Corinthian answers. “Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Hob lets The Corinthian take over their undressing from there.

“How do you want things?” Hob asks once they’re both naked and rutting their hips against one another. “Tell me what you want, pet.”

“Inside me,” The Corinthian says before he can think about it too deeply. “Make love to me Hob, fuck.”

“Gladly,” Hob responds, then nips at The Corinthian’s collarbone. ”Can I prep you with my tongue?”

“Yes please, anything, I need-”

“Shh, I know what you need darling.” Hob moves The Corinthian to lie back down on the bed, then leaves a trail of kisses from neck to hip. Hob mouths at The Corinthian’s thighs, moving his head agonizing slowly downward before he reaches his target. He sighs as if he’s appreciating a rare artwork, then begins licking his way inside The Corinthian’s hole.

Hob’s tongue is hot inside him. He’s missed this, The Corinthian realizes, missed the intimacy of Hob, the gentleness, the love punctuated in every single one of his actions that The Corinthian had taken for granted in their time together. Every one of his partners in America had been looking for a quick fuck, for an escape, for something other than him, but Hob touches him like he is the only being in existence that matters. The Corinthian's cock is dripping precome, but when he moves his hand to attend to it, Hob swats his hand away.

"None of that, love," Hob says, withdrawing his tongue. His deep voice so close to The Corinthian's hole sends vibrations up the nightmare's spine, and he whines high and needy. Hob then licks a slow stripe up The Corinthian's cock, before he takes the head into his mouth and sucks, tongue flicking out at the slit on the withdraw.

The Corinthian cants his hips and moans, wanting more but not knowing how to ask. Hob lifts one of his legs, then the other, and throws both over his shoulders, lifting The Corinthian’s ass into the air. Then he resumes his earlier task and begins to tongue fuck his hole at a brutal pace.

The Corinthian thrashes at the sensation, eyes watering. His hand grasps wildly along the sheets, looking for purchase, before he finally feels Hob’s own hand grip it tightly, tongue still pushed deep inside of him.

Then Hob removes his tongue from inside him and The Corinthian whines at the loss. Hob's now mouthing at his balls, teeth lightly grazing every few licks, and The Corinthian’s hips jerk violently at the action. Hob grips his thighs to still him.

“You ready for my cock, sweet thing?” Hob asks, breathless.

“Fuck yes,” The Corinthian pants.

Hob removes The Corinthian’s legs from his shoulders, and opens the nightstand drawer to find a bottle of lube. The Corinthian wonders if Hob has used it at all in his absence. He doesn’t have time to contemplate the thought for long because Hob slicks himself quickly up and then starts pushing himself inside The Corinthian.

The stretch burns. The Corinthian loves it. He’s missed it.

“Fucking Christ, Cory, have you always been this tight?” Hob gasps, voice strained. Even with the slowed pace, it’s almost a Herculean effort for The Corinthian to relax enough to let Hob slide inside him.

“Ah fuck,” The Corinthian moans. He’d forgotten how large Hob was. “I haven’t…no one else has been inside.”

Hob’s eyes go dark at the revelation. He snaps his hips suddenly and The Corinthian keens.

“That so, love?” Hob growls possessively, sending a shiver down The Corinthian’s spine. “Not a single cock has been inside you since you left me all those years ago?”

“Fuck, no,” The Corinthian replies. “Topped a few guys stateside sure, before I- oh ," Hob's cock brushes against his prostate, interrupting his train of thought. "No one else," he finishes, brain addled with pleasure.

“Sweet Hell, Cory, warn a man before you say things like that,” Hob replies, and then the man starts fucking him in earnest. “I want this to last.”

They fall into a rhythm, Hob rocking into him and The Corinthian whispering small ahs and ohs every other thrust. The Corinthian lifts his leg and hooks his ankle to Hob’s shoulder, dragging the other man closer. Hob groans now that he’s buried to the hilt inside The Corinthian.

“God, you feel amazing, Cory,” Hob says. "Just so fucking perfect for me."

The Corinthian groans at the praise. It's another thing he's missed, he thinks. He wants to hear Hob praise him more.

"Is that so, love?" Hob says and The Corinthian realizes he's said the thought aloud.

Hob pauses his movements and begins to pull out of The Corinthian, who whines and clenches, trying to keep the immortal inside.

"Shh it's okay pet, just give me a moment," Hob murmurs, pressing a kiss to The Corinthian's forehead. Hob then maneuvers their bodies to sit The Corinthian in Hob's lap, the immortal's back to the pillows and resting against the wall.

"There we are. I want you to ride me just like this Cory, can you do that for me? Sweet thing, beautiful, gorgeous creature?"

The Corinthian nods, lifts his hips and, in a moment of impatience, sinks himself entirely on Hob's cock in one swift movement.

The burn rushes up his back like lightning.

“Fuck!” Hob yells, and he bites down on the Corinthian's shoulder. The Corinthian screams at the twin sensations of pain just on the other side of pleasure, and he thrashes underneath Hob, who grips him tight to hold him still. A few moments pass before Hob releases his grip and teeth from him, and then begins licking against the deep bite mark left behind.

“I thought you wanted soft and gentle tonight, love,” Hob murmurs into his shoulder. “But like everything else, you're just greedy for more, aren't you?”

The Corthian moans and tries to move his hips, but Hob grips them, stopping him. When he's still, the immortal then moves one hand off his hip to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a soft kiss.

“Come on then, ride my cock exactly how you want to then,” Hob pants against his mouth. “Show me what you want, take your orgasm from me. I'll give it to you.”

The Corinthian does not need to be told twice. He moves his face away from Hob’s, lifts his hips up as far as he can manage, and slams them down, over and over, searching for his prostate. Hob snaps his hips up, thrusting to meet his every movement. The Corinthian groans when Hob palms his cock, and he can hear the immortal uttering a litany of curses older than the modern world.

"Mary's tits you're so gorgeous," Hob moans. "You're so good for me Cory, so perfect, and you are mine. " Hob growls that last word like he would go to war for him, like he would tear the universe apart to keep him, and that thought is what puts The Corinthian over the edge.

His orgasm slams into him like a freight train, and he clenches so hard at the sensation that Hob roars his own orgasm into his chest shortly after. They sit there for a time, only the sound of their heavy breathing permeating the room.

"God, I missed you," Hob grunts, and The Corinthian can feel the other man grinning against him.

"Yeah, me too," The Corinthian agrees.

"You're not allowed to leave again," Hob says, suddenly serious.

The Corinthian kisses him in response. "You're stuck with me now baby." He grins.

"Good."

Later, once they've cleaned up, they lie together in Hob's bed, The Corinthian curled up against Hob's chest. The Corinthian does not need to sleep, but he finds himself nodding off, his entire body boneless and wrung out from everything that’s happened tonight.

“Cory?” Hob’s voice asks sleepily from above him.

"Hmmmm?"

“I'm not the only one with unrequited feelings for Dream, am I?"

If it were earlier in the night, The Corinthian would tense up and refuse to answer. Fucked out on Hob's bed, he barely feels the jealousy.

"It's not unrequited if he loves you back," The Corinthian replies.

"Oh? And how are you so sure about that?" Hob asks, voice more awake.

"Because of the way he looks at you. Like you're…something precious. Special." The Corinthian doesn't even blame Dream at this point, he's fairly certain he has the same dumb look on his face right now.

"Really now, because I was about to say the exact same thing about you," Hob replies.

The Corinthian snorts. "Yeah, okay sure."

"Hey, look at me," Hob insists and tips his thumb under The Corinthian's chin to raise it.

"He called you his favorite, didn't he?" the immortal asks. "And he also told me he suspected you helped keep him trapped down there in Roderick's basement, yes, he told me the gist of the story," Hob says when he feels The Corinthian tense underneath the accusation. "He knows, and I know now too."

"But that's not what I'm getting at. Do you really think Dream would still call you his favorite, his masterpiece, his little nightmare if he didn't love you as much as you love him?"

For once, The Corinthian is at a loss for words. Nothing that's happened tonight has been to his expectations. He fully expected to be unmade this night, and instead, Dream and Hob had both held him while he cried.

Hob takes pity on him when he sees his expression. He kisses him, soft and wet, then draws the Corinthian into a hug.

"There now, pet," he whispers soothingly. "You've had a lot of revelations tonight. Let's go to bed, we'll talk more in the morning."

"…Okay."

The Corinthian may not sleep, but tonight he closes his eyes and floats in the space between waking and dreaming.

#the sandman fanfic #sandman fic #hobrinthian #hob gadling #the corinthian #whew lad this was my favorite chapter to write #and even then #I got so distracted by this damn poll I forgot to post it to my blog for two days LOL #seiya writes #mystuff #seiya writes hobrintheus #seiya writes hobrinthian

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seiya-starsniper · 2 years ago

Text

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 3

Link on AO3 [here]

Chapter Summary: Time for a Dreamling reunion! And a guest appearance by Johanna, because I love her to pieces, and someone needs to keep Hob in check while The Corinthian is away.

The Corinthian has been gone for almost a year.

Hob had taken a week off work after the blond had left to process. He hadn't been able to stay in his flat that whole week, opting instead to crash at Johanna’s. Everything in the flat reminded him of The Corinthian, who hadn't even bothered to pack a bag, just vanished into thin air. Johanna had forced him to start categorizing all her magical artifacts after two days, and Hob was all too happy to have something to take his mind off things.

Afterwards, between travel shutdowns, his university absolutely falling to madness trying to transition to online, and an uptick in supernatural activity (pandemics don’t stop supernatural beings, who knew) so vast that Johanna had asked for his help on a few jobs, Hob hadn’t been able to even go look for The Corinthian even though he had a very good idea of where he was. Or well, at least, what country he was in.

Hob had tried calling, texting, hell he even rang up the witch coven in Edmonton asking if they knew a summoning spell to get him to come back, all to no avail. Johanna didn’t know anything either. She had never even heard of a nightmare walking around the earth prior to The Corinthian.

“You know mate,” Johanna says now, sympathetic, over their fourth round of drinks. She’d practically had to drag him out of the flat tonight. “I hate to say I told you so but…” she doesn’t finish her sentence. Hob knows what she means. Johanna had not reacted kindly to Hob moving The Corinthian into his flat. She’d cursed him and called him every name under the sun and had told him she wouldn’t come to an idiot’s funeral. She'd said the relationship wouldn't last a year before The Corinthian would get bored, gut him, and leave him.

She had come around, Hob remembered. Eventually. Reluctantly.

Two years after The Corinthian had moved into his flat, Hob and the blond had been tracking a suspected child serial killer. It hadn’t taken long for them to locate the killer’s hiding spot in an old crumbling castle, and on the night they moved to confront him, Hob had been surprised to run into Johanna right outside.

"What the hell, get the fuck off my turf mate," Johanna had said when she spotted them.

The Corinthian growled in response, and Hob heard it come through all three mouths, which meant he really didn’t like her and that complicated matters.

“Johanna, lovely to see you as always, mind filling me in on why you're here?” Hob asked, trying to lighten the situation.

“Why are you here, I thought the bastard only ate human eyes-,”

“Oh, I like any and all types of eyes, in fact I'll bet the eyes of a Constantine would taste divine,” The Corinthian responded and Hob knew enough about the Corinthian to recognize he was trying discreetly to reach for the knife in his jacket. He stuck out his hand to stop him.

“Ok whoa whoa, Cory, first off, no, Johanna's off limits, not only is she not a criminal, she's also my friend ,” Hob said, gripping the Corinthian’s wrist to show he was serious.

“Your friend who taught you how to blow me up too, if I recall,” The Corinthian noted, a sour tone in his voice, but he didn’t struggle so Hob took that as a good sign.

“Yeah, pity none of it stuck.” Johanna retorted.

“I'll make your death stick you fucking-”

“All right, all right, you're both super scary, that's great,” Hob interrupted before they could get fully off topic with their juvenile antics. “Now, Johanna, there is a child in there that I have been asked to retrieve. His mum's worried sick and the Yard is just spinning their wheels. As much as I'm glad to see you, you being here worries me. Could you tell me why?”

Johanna had softened instantly, then looked utterly miserable at the news.

“The thing in there's an ogre. I'm sorry Hob, I don't think the kid's still alive,” she said sadly.

The reveal broke Hob's heart. Still, he didn't want to give up hope.

“Let us come in with you then," he'd said. Johanna gave them an offended look at the idea she might need help.

"I know, I know." Hob continued. "You're a big girl and you've been doing this for a while, but Cory and I aren't fragile, far from it, so there’s no need to worry about us, even if we do get hurt. Plus, I want to at least find something, if only to bring closure to his mum.” Hob pleaded. He really did not want to return to the woman empty-handed. Johanna looked like she wanted to argue, then decided against it and after a quick rundown, the three of them went inside together.

The resulting fight had been messy. Turns out, there was a whole family of ogres in the crumbling castle. Johanna had been able to take down two before the third had broken her right hand. Hob and The Corinthian had disemboweled it thoroughly in revenge.

In the end, Johanna was right, there was no living child in the castle that they could find, only scattered bones and discarded clothes. Hob would have to break the bad news to the distraught mother. He did manage to locate a jacket that matched the one of the photographs the woman had given him. Proof that her child had been here and gone. There was no need to look for anything else.

The Corinthian easily sensed the dour mood between Johanna and Hob, and had gone off to go eat the three pairs of ogre eyes in private once he’d separated them from their owners.

He’d come back a short time later in a considerably brighter mood, which Hob found a bit inappropriate, but he reminded himself that The Corinthian was who he was, and he’d probably had a good meal, so at least there was that. They'd have a talk about proper human passing behavior later.

“I know where a whole lot of other ogres are!” The Corinthian bragged. "And a whole lot of children, who are very much, Not Dead. ” Hob could practically hear the capital letters in the blond’s voice, and he raised his head so fast he was pretty sure he gave himself whiplash. He swore he heard Johanna let out a surprised gasp.

Well. The Corinthian now had their full attention.

“Also, I forgot how delicious non-human eyes are, I’ve changed my mind, we should absolutely meet like this more often, Constantine, I would love to get some Fey eyes next time.” The Corinthian continued. “In fact-”

"Cory, where are the damn children?" Hob snarled. The Corinthian's returning feral grin meant he was playing coy on purpose.

"Oh, there’s a hidden dungeon right downstairs.” The blonde shrugged, as if the news didn’t change absolutely everything about the night. “About 30 or so of them. Apparently there’s going to be some sort of family reunion in the next couple of days, so all those kidnappings were prep work for the big feast!" The Corinthian spread his arms wide for emphasis.

"But you know how ogres are, they like their food fresh so they’ve been trying to plump up the kids with all sorts of garbage to make ‘em taste sweeter."

“So wait, what you’re saying is-” Hob’s hope is so fragile, but could it be? They didn’t know how many children had been taken, but thirty was quite a lot, so maybe-

"Well, there were definitely some children who were eaten the last few days, just as snacks, mostly homeless orphans, but the one we were looking for is right downstairs Hob!" The Corinthian then turned to Johanna and gave her a conspiratorial grin. "And the rest of the ogres have no idea their hosts are dead so…"

Johanna’s answering devilish grin once she realized the implications had fit right at home with The Corinthian’s. They looked like a pair of naughty children who'd just gotten away with stealing sweets under the adult's noses. Johanna would receive a massive payment for taking out an entire orge's nest and Hob would be able to reunite a single mother with her only child.

"You've got a little something on your face, love," Hob said later, once they’d left the castle and arranged for the kids to be picked up. He leaned in to swipe the fluid from the blond's face but as soon as he began pulling his hand away, The Corinthian took it instead and licked up Hob’s fingers as if he were licking the blood off one of his own knives. Slowly. With intent. He stared right into Hob’s eyes while doing it too.

"You two are disgusting! " Johanna had yelled before storming off. Hob would’ve thought to chase after her to at least say goodbye, or try to coordinate getting rid of the rest of the ogre nest, but his brain had short-circuited entirely.

He had never driven home so fast before. The Corinthian had distracted him the whole 25 minute drive.

Hob’s immediately snapped out of his reverie and back to the present by Johanna,“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just thinking about the ogre nest,” Hob answers. No need to elaborate past that. Certainly no need to tell Johanna the details of what happened afterwards.

Johanna grimaces like it's a bad memory. It probably was. Even with the happy surprise of finding all those children alive, her hand had taken at least a month to heal.

“Why are you thinking about- oh you fucking sop. Disgusting, the both of you were that night.” Johanna downs the rest of her beer.

“Look I know the eyeball munching thing takes a bit to get used to but-”

“I wasn't talking about that, although honestly, the eyeball thing is not erotic no matter how many times you try to explain it, you're just a freak.” Johanna interrupts.

“What was so disgusting then?” Hob asks, curious. He knows his tastes have always been, perhaps, on the other side of eclectic, especially in the last century, but Johanna has had plenty of non-human dalliances herself, he’d have thought she’d have been more open minded about things. “He made sure he was out of sight when he ate all their eyes, when we thought all those kids were dead. The epitome of politeness, if you ask me.”

“You really don't know? God the thing doesn't even have eyes-”

“He's not a thing Johanna-”

“But anyone could tell he was so far gone for you, it was nauseating. He looked at you like you were the only thing worth looking at in the whole damn universe. And you were doing the exact same thing back at him. Like a goddamn romance novel from Hell.”

As much as she's insulting him, Hob knows she's also trying to reassure him. He's thought about their last night nonstop, turning it over and over in his head. He still doesn’t have any answers for why the blonde left the way he did.

“I just don't know why he left,” Hob groans, frustrated with the line of thought. “Especially after I gave-” Hob stops suddenly, realizing he hasn’t told Johanna what happened that night. He wasn't ready for her judgment on his actions back then, and he’s not sure he’s ready now, but it may be too late to back out now.

“…after you what Hob?” Yep, no backing out now. She’d been trying to get this story out of him for a while, and now that he thinks about it, the drinks were probably a means to multiple ends.

“Well I mean….we had this job go terribly pear shaped,” Hob starts, praying that he can focus on the minutiae of the botched job and get Johanna lost in the details.

“ What. Did. You. Do . Hob?” No chance of bullshitting his way out of the conversation now.

“I lost an eye, all right!” Hob admits. “And you know I can grow those things back like grapes, and the eye was still perfectly intact so I just thought…”

“You gave him YOUR EYE?” Johanna practically yells. Well now the whole bar is staring at them, and Hob can tell a few of them are checking to see if he still has both eyes. He really should have just insisted on taking her to the private back room he’d built for his business meetings, but Johanna just plopped down at the bar when they’d come downstairs, wanting to be as close to the beer taps as possible.

“I didn’t want it to go to waste!” Hob frantically tries to whisper, then tries and fails to put his hand over Johanna's mouth.

Johanna looks heavenward, as if that will somehow provide answers. Or a pity smiting to escape this conversation, Hob's not entirely sure.

Finally, she sighs.

“Look…” she tries. “Maybe he just got overwhelmed. Has to process things alone before he can come back. You've got a whole lot of memories in that noggin of yours, and he probably got spooked by something,” but Hob knows neither of them believe it. Still.

“It felt like a final goodbye, but you're not wrong,” Hob concedes. “I don't know what he saw, but whatever it was definitely spooked him. I wish he would've just asked me instead of running off. I couldn’t even go after him with all the shutdowns happening right after, and he still won’t pick up my calls. I'd be off there chasing him down now if I could take the time off from classes.”

There's silence for a beat. Then, "S'not just the job keeping you here though, innit?" Johanna slurs.

“What do you mean?”

“Your Stranger. The one who gave you all this,” she gestures at him. “You're still waiting for him, aren't you? It's why you won't leave the UK for anything, travel restrictions be damned. You could do video lectures from anywhere now too, but you’re here waiting for a man who you’re not even sure still wants to see you.”

“Hey now, that’s not fair, I still have other duties to attend to here too! Plus I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for Cory,” Hob tries to defend himself.

“Yeah, but that's not the point , Hob. The point is you're waiting on some guy to show up to this pub and maybe you stopped waiting every week with your blond man around but now that he’s gone and left you, you're right back at it waiting for a different man who left you like a lovesick fool.” She points at him. “You, my friend, have got a problem. ”

Hob downs the rest of his whiskey instead of answering.

—

When Hob heads upstairs to his flat, warmed from both the whiskey and Johanna's company, he runs his fingers over the sigil The Corinthian had carved into his bed shortly after he'd begun living with Hob. He smiles ruefully at the memory. It was the first time The Corinthian had opened up to him about what kind of supernatural entity he was.

Hob had spent the better part of the last century living with either restless, dreamless sleep, or with nightmares that shook him so much he'd wake up screaming. It had been a long time since he'd had any other type of dream. His condition started around the time the Sleepy Sickness started, and Hob had been glad he hadn’t fallen prey to some of the more severe conditions, such as no sleep at all, or a perpetual sleep. Hob had made it a habit to avoid doctors and it would’ve been rather hard to explain himself not aging while in either of those states.

It didn’t take long after moving in for The Corinthian to offer up his services to alleviate Hob of his troubles. Turns out, the Quora article was right after all.

"So, what, you're a nightmare and doing this will help stop me having bad dreams?" Hob had asked as he watched The Corinthian inspect his bed for the perfect spot to carve.

"It'll keep the others of my kind away, yes. I haven't been back in an age, but I know most of the other nightmares have gone absolutely feral in our creator's absence.” The Corinthian grinned, as if the knowledge greatly pleased him. It probably did.

“The creator who tried to kill you? The one who went missing, and that’s why we have the Sleepy Sickness?” Hob asked and The Corinthian nodded.

“The one and only. I’m sure the realm’s a bit of a mess, but the other nightmares should still leave you alone once I put my mark here, if they know what's good for them." Hob swears The Corinthian’s grin grew even more feral.

"And what exactly is this mark?" Hob tapped at the symbol The Corinthian had put on paper to show him what he’d be carving. “A protection spell of some kind?”

"It's my name,” The Corinthian replied. “My true name, from when I was first born into existence. It means that I’ve claimed you as my dreamer, and you’re mine."

Hob's breath stuttered in his lungs. He'd wondered if The Corinthian could tell the effect the sentence had on him. It was the closest the blond had come so far to saying what Hob meant to him. Hob already knew at that point that he was falling for the nightmare, and this certainly wasn’t helping his case.

"Go on then," he said, possibly a little (a lot) more breathily than he meant to. "Carve your name into my bedpost. Show everyone that I'm yours."

The Corinthian had also cut his name into Hob’s chest, right beneath his collarbone (for extra insurance, he said) later that night, right after he had sunk his hips down onto Hob’s cock. The twin sensations of pain and pleasure had nearly driven him over the edge, and Hob had needed to grab the base of himself to stop himself from coming too early. The Corinthian, little shit that he was, took that as a challenge.

The wound had healed of course, but Hob still feels the mark there, like a ghost. He had kept the paper drawing in a folder too, because he was sentimental. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’s able to be tattooed, but he’d always been too afraid to go into a shop in the event the tattoo doesn’t take with the way his skin heals, and he’d have to explain himself. For now, the mark on his bed will have to do.

The nightmares stopped entirely after that night. Hob's still not sure how exactly the whole naming, claiming, thing works, but he's started praying to it at night, wishing for The Corinthian to stay safe wherever he was, but mostly wishing he would just come home.

–

Almost two years after The Corinthian leaves, The Stranger walks into The New Inn and stands in front of Hob's table.

It's the first time in a long time Hob forgets about The Corinthian. All he can do is stare at the ethereal being in front of him and think finally.

"You're late," Hob says, and realizes he's smiling. It's been so long since he last smiled genuinely that it feels both foreign and comforting at once.

What he doesn’t expect next is to see his own smile returned. Even if he had the most expensive and high quality camera known to man on hand, Hob doesn’t think any piece of mere human technology could capture the brilliance.

“It seems I owe you an apology,” his Stranger says. “I've always heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting.”

Friends. His Stranger had called him his friend. He's acknowledged their bond, their companionship. Maybe a little bit later than Hob had been hoping for, but it was worth the wait. His friend was worth all the time in the world.

Hob’s centennial companion pulls out the chair in front of the table and sits down across from him. He hasn’t stopped smiling. Neither has Hob.

Time passes like that for a while. It’s not awkward, there’s no tension, just pure contentment to look at each other for the first time in 133 years. If Hob didn’t know any better, he’d think he’d think he’d died without his knowledge and gone to heaven.

“Hi dear, can I get you anything?” The waitress’s sunny question shakes them both out of their trance.

“Anything my friend wants, my treat Anna,” Hob says before the other man can answer.

“I thank you, Hob,” his friend answers then turns to Anna, his smile more muted now, but not any less dazzling. “A glass of dry red wine please, the oldest vintage you have available.”

“You and your wine.” Hob laughs when Anna leaves. He recalls that wine, usually a red, would be the only thing his friend would ever order at their meetings. Some things just never changed.

“It is, admittedly, one of my favorite inventions by humans,” the dark haired man replies, then purses his lips. “And I have been without it for quite some time.”

“Have you now?” Hob asks, sensing a story. “Well then, you can have all the red wine we have here, I don’t mind.”

“We?”

“Ah yeah, this place, The New Inn? It’s mine.” Hob admits. “I don’t really get too involved in the operations side of things anymore, but I tend the bar from time to time when there’s no classes. I know you probably saw, but the old White Horse was going to be turned into flats by some reprehensible folks, and I’ve had enough wealth accumulated over the years that I was able to stop the whole operation in its tracks. Couldn’t keep the damn place open though, so I decided to build on the land right by it instead.”

“You…built a pub? So that we could continue to have a place to meet?” The other man asks, astonished.

“Of course! Isn’t that what friends are for?” Hob replies. He really hopes he hadn’t read the whole thing wrong and his friend doesn’t walk out on him again for presuming things. It’s only now just occurring to Hob that building an entire pub for someone, even a not entirely human entity, is a bit much.

Of all the reactions the Stranger could have had though, the absolute last one Hob expects is tears.

“Even after I was forced to miss our last meeting. Without knowing if I had abandoned you or not, you still kept your faith in me? Enough that you built a place so that I may take sanctuary after my imprisonment?” The Stranger's voice is filled with unbridled emotion as more tears freely spill down his cheeks.

Imprisonment? Well now. Hob has a whole lot of questions, but first and foremost, he had a friend to comfort. He reaches across the table and takes the man’s hand in his own. Squeezes it for good measure. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched in 700 years and it feels electric , more so when his friend begins to run a hesitant thumb along his.

“My friend,” Hob says after a brief silence. “I would build you thousands of sanctuaries across the world, no, across the entire universe, if I meant that I could meet you at each one and offer you a place to rest.”

Hob decides to take a chance. To be bold. He’s already gotten more than he could have ever hoped for, what’s one more risk?

He reaches over with his other hand to wipe the tears from his friend’s face. The other man looks shocked, as if he hadn’t realized he were crying. No, more like he had forgotten. What had filled his friend so full of grief for so long that he could no longer comprehend his own tears?

“I know it’s customary for me to update you on everything I’ve been up to in the last hundred years.” Hob says. “But I think I’d like to know what’s happened to you instead, if you’re willing to tell me. However much or little,” he adds, reassuringly.

His friend is quiet for a long time, expression contemplative. Anna comes back with the wine, raises her eyebrows, but blessedly, does not mention the emotional moment fraught between them.

“I’ll come back with the rest of the bottle in a little bit, just holler when you’d like it, all right?” she says and in a flash she’s gone, leaving them to their privacy.

The Stranger still hasn’t let go of his hand, and does not appear to want to. He instead uses his free hand to pick up the glass Anna had left so he can sip at his wine. After a few minutes, he sighs and begins to speak.

“Do you remember, in 1789, when we had spoken about how beings such as us could be hurt, or captured?” the Stranger asks solemnly.

Hob remembers. He nods and squeezes their hands together, prompting the man to continue.

“In 1916, a man named Roderick Burgess had sought to capture my sister, Death, in an attempt to resurrect his son lost in battle.” the Stranger says. “His spell entrapped me instead. He then used more magic to bind me within the basement of his estate, and I lay there for more than 100 years. Roderick demanded many things from me, his son alive again, riches, immortality, all of which were not things that I could give, nor would I have wanted to, if I could.”

There is so much in that first bit that Hob doesn’t know where to start. He goes with the most pressing question he has.

“But I thought Roderick died in the 1930s! Why couldn’t you escape then?” Hob remembers now, with a sinking feeling, that there were plenty of rumors about Roderick Burgess having trapped the Devil in his basement. He wishes he’d looked into it more, wishes he could’ve found his friend earlier and broken him out of that awful prison.

“Roderick did die, in 1926 actually, and his son had offered me freedom, if only I would not hurt him and his lover in revenge for my capture.” his friend confirms. “The son was young when his father took me, but he was nearly an adult when he murdered my raven companion, Jessamy, on the order of his father. I could not forgive him for that." His Stranger now grips Hob's hand at the memory, pained anger crossing his face. Hob wants to wipe away that expression too.

"My anger and pride kept me imprisoned for an additional 96 years, until finally, in their old age and near death, his paramour took pity on me and broke the enchantment imprisoning me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hob breathes. “Was there no one you could call to for help? What about your sister, did she know you were trapped?” There is absolutely no way someone could defy Death of all things, especially if someone trapped her own brother. Hob makes a mental note to ask about the whole family tree later.

“My siblings all knew of my capture, and yet none of us are allowed to intervene in each other's affairs, unless asked. It is another thing my pride has cost me. I need only ask their help and any one of them would have come for me. Instead, I chose silence.”

“But that’s not fair! I know you’re not human and so you have different rules than me, but amongst us humans, we give help to our families even when it’s not asked for! Sometimes, especially when it’s not asked!” Hob argues.

“It is the way of the Endless, Hob.” the Stranger says with a finality that tells Hob the subject is closed. Hob wants to continue to press, but he asks instead,

“Endless, so that’s what you are then?”

“Yes. There are seven of us in total. And I must apologize once again for keeping you waiting on another thing for the last few hundred years. My name.”

Hob feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“I have been called many things over the years. My most recent name in human tongues has been Morpheus.”

Morpheus. It's a regal sounding name, fit for a king. Hob’s just getting used to the idea of it in his head when Morpheus speaks again.

“But as my friend, you may call me by my truest name, Dream.”

Dream. What a beautiful name. All of his names are beautiful, Hob imagines, and he’d like to learn them all.

“Well, Dream, my friend, can I buy you a drink and a meal then?” Hob asks, squeezing their hands together again. “I'll catch you up on all that you've missed.”

“I would be happy with anything you are willing to offer me, my friend,” Dream replies.

–

They get the rest of the wine, and Hob some food. Dream does not order anything for himself, content to partake in whatever Hob is willing to share, which is everything. He unfortunately has to relinquish his hand from Dream’s to eat, but they freely reach for one another when the moments allow. It is far from the regal meal he had offered to his friend in 1589, and yet, Hob thinks it tastes better.

Hob is now telling Dream stories about the last hundred years. It’s been quite possibly the most interesting century he’s lived through so far.

He shies away from anything related to The Corinthian. Hob had been a mercenary in his past life, killing for other people's money, so he knows Dream won't judge him, may even commend him for trying to do some good for people who slip through the flawed justice system. But explaining Cory is a story all on its own, and the memories are still too fresh and painful, especially with how things were left off (Hob still refuses to admit they've ended). Still, the blond was such an integral part of life in the last ten, no, twelve years . Hob is still counting the two years The Corinthian has been gone.

“Hob?” Dream’s voice snaps him out of his self-pity inner monologue. Hob forgot what he had been talking about, but he knows he needs to get back to more light hearted topics before he ends up crying at the table himself.

“Sorry about that, don't know what came over me!”

“You've become melancholy despite describing a happy memory,” Dream observes.

“Ah yeah, well.” Hob decides to open up, just a little. "I went through a break up not too long ago. Well it's been almost two years now, but we were together almost ten years before that." It's not much, but even admitting that The Corinthian left him out loud to someone else feels like tearing open a not yet healed scar.

“Ten years is not an insignificant amount of time, especially for mortals. It is understandable why you would be distraught,” Dream says. This time, it is the Endless who squeezes Hob's hand in reassurance.

“Yeah, I still miss him too." Hob says. “Didn't even get a proper goodbye, one day everything's perfect and then he just up and left.” He tries not to choke on those last few words, but it's more difficult than he'd like to admit.

“Him?” Dream asks. Right, Hob's only ever had female partners to speak of whenever they met once a century.

“Oh yeah, another fun 20th century thing I discovered, turns out I'm bisexual!” Hob declared proudly.

It really hadn't been that much of a discovery, nor had it come in the 20th century. Rather, it had been in 1789 when Hob had realized he may have inappropriate feelings for the man sitting across the table from him.

He had tried to gently bring up the topic in 1889, prefacing things with friendship first so as not to alarm his companion, but Dream had reacted so poorly to being regarded as a friend that Hob hadn't even gotten the chance to be romantically rejected.

And then Dream hadn't shown up in 1989 and had broken Hob's heart.

Hob is glad to know Dream didn’t abandon him on purpose, and he’s even more glad he waited for him and built them a new place to meet. But his heart is still too raw to even think about trying to start something with Dream, not when he's just gotten him back, not when his heart still belongs somewhere in America.

“But enough about me and my poor broken heart, let me tell you about the internet!”

Dream looks like he wants to press, but instead gracefully accepts the subject change and allows Hob to enlighten him about YouTube, memes, and Netflix.

–

At some point in the night, Hob catches sight of a breaking story on BBC, on one of the pub’s televisions. A British tourist had been found on a beach in Florida. His eyes are missing. The story then goes into the mysterious resurgence of killings by The Corinthian in the United States. It seems like there’s been a murder at least once a month, if not more, in the last two years.

Fucking hell Cory, what are you doing?, Hob thinks despairingly.

“What are you looking at?” Dream asks, curious.

“Terrible news mostly, sorry about that, I’m going to ask them to change the channel.” Hob says. He can’t stomach looking at this. Before he’s able to get up, though, Dream turns to look at the television screen behind him and his entire demeanor changes.

Hob feels as if all the air in the room has suddenly disappeared. If there were ever a reminder for the immortal that his oldest friend is not human, this is it.

"The Corinthian," he hisses, venom dripping on every syllable.

“Wait a minute, you know him?!” Hob asks, and his mind suddenly spins a thousand conclusions.

The Corinthian told Hob that he was a nightmare. His creator, the one who had tried to kill him, was a king, who presided over the realm of dreams and nightmares and he…

Hob suddenly has a flashback to ancient Greek history, the old poems, the name Morpheus…

Morpheus. Dream.

Dream is The Corinthian’s creator. The one who had tried to unmake him…in 1916…almost a hundred years ago.

Fuck.

Dream continues, unaware of Hob's panic. “The Corinthian is a wayward creation of mine. I was in the middle of unmaking him for some grievous crimes when I was captured by Roderick. I also have my suspicions that he provided advice to Roderick on how to keep me contained.”

Suspicions that Hob knows to be true. The Corinthian had told him once that he'd gone to visit his creator's captors to make sure he wouldn't get free. Hob feels wretched for not pushing The Corinthian more on who exactly his creator was but the blond had always been so cagey about his origins, and Hob had learned from his 1889 meeting with Dream not to push too many boundaries on supernatural entities. As far as he was concerned, The Corinthian was a survivor of a cruel, uncaring master and Hob was just glad to have him in his life. He's not sure how to reconcile the image The Corinthian painted of his creator with his centennial companion who certainly has a temper, but was anything but cold and unfeeling.

Dream stands suddenly, only barely managing to not knock his chair to the floor.

“I apologize, Hob, for cutting our time short, but I must reign him in before more are cut down by his selfishness.”

“Wait Drea-”

But Morpheus is already gone. It's so sudden, so familiar, that Hob realizes he's an idiot for not noticing it before.

Shit shit shit, Hob thinks.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number he still knows by heart despite not hearing from it in almost two years.

The number you have dialed has been disconnected. The operator automatically answers.

SHIT!

All Hob can do now is wait, and hope that his lover and his old friend don’t tear themselves apart. He’s not sure whose side he’d even choose.

#hobrinthian #sandman fic #the sandman fanfic #hob gadling #the corinthian #there's definitely still angst here but there's also some nice fluff sandwiched in between #enjoy #seiya writes #mystuff #seiya writes hobrinthian #seiya writes hobrintheus

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seiya-starsniper · 2 years ago

Text

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 2

Ao3 Link [Here]

Chapter Summary - The Corinthian and Hob have established a fairly comfortable relationship. But then it all comes crashing down.

Life in the Waking World is pretty interesting for The Corinthian these days.

His tongue still fumbles awkwardly around the differences in slang over the pond, he hates that the weather in London makes his hair fall flat on his face no matter what he does to it, and he misses Taco Bell like an old drug habit.

And all of this inconvenience, he thinks, is for the immortal who’s currently asleep next to him, snoring something fierce right up against The Corinthian’s ear.

The Corinthian has never met anyone quite like Hob Gadling before. From their initial meeting, Hob has defied all of his expectations and then some. His immortality, first and foremost, should not have caught The Corinthian completely off guard, but it did. Hob doesn’t smell like other immortals, he tries his best to blend in with humans, to be average, unremarkable . To this day, The Corinthian cannot understand how the man pulls it off so well.

Especially because underneath that false unremarkable exterior lies a wild beast that may just be as ferocious and unrestrained as The Corinthian himself. He's clever and ambitious in all the ways a regular mortal is, but the centuries have allowed Hob to fully master the act of humanity. Hob has managed to bend the world to his will without showing his cards. It's performance art at its highest peak. It's a tenaciousness The Corinthian hungers for, something he realized he looked for in all his victims. The vivacity, that addiction to life and the willingness to, as they say, grab it by the horns and never let go.

It's why The Corinthian kept coming back time and time again, to test the bounds of that tenaciousness, instead of fucking off to do something else after his first few attempts had ended with him disembodied and transported back to The Dreaming. Having his corporeal form completely destroyed and then reformed hurt like a bitch, and he hated how long the rebuilding process took, but every subsequent trip back had left him wanting .

Lucienne had been less than impressed on his fourth trip back, he remembers.

"Ah, welcome back. I take it you've once again failed to eliminate your target,” she'd greeted, amusement barely concealed behind her glasses.

"Shut the fuck up Lucienne," The Corinthian had growled, already working on creating a portal to get him back to the Waking. It didn't take long. He'd gotten good at this with all the practice Hob gave him.

"You know Corinthian, maybe the Waking is trying to tell you something!" she yelled at his retreating back.

"Good thing I've never been good at listening." The Corinthian then gave her the bird on his way out to London.

Shortly after that, the cult happened. And then Hob had glimpsed his full face for the first time and The Corinthian was left gobsmacked by the desire radiating off of him. He's only ever been appreciated for his full appearance by one other being, and even so, it had never felt like this. It's delicious, it's dark and all consuming. It's everything The Corinthian didn't know he wanted, couldn't ever have imagined having, before that moment.

What started out as a simple revenge quest to stave off some boredom had suddenly turned to one of the best fucks off his life.

Afterwards, The Corinthian had tried not to make it a regular thing, but well, he's never been known for being a man who's able to reign in his vices. And Hob Gadling is such a strong vice he feels like the Original Sin itself. He doesn't flinch when the Corinthian bites hard enough to draw blood, leans into the blond's grip when choked, and the immortal will sometimes spend hours licking into his eye mouths while keeping three, sometimes four fingers buried knuckle deep inside The Corinthian.

When Hob wants The Corinthian to submit, and it's become a more regular thing, he takes and takes with brutal force, slamming his head into walls and twisting his arms just hard enough to leave a threat of dislocation. It's an echo of their old sparring fights, but Hob now knows The Corinthian favors his right side for an outright attack, his left for a feint. Hob also knows how much he loves those iron cuffs (forged by Hob, and made just for him), and loves testing the limits of their strength. It's the height of pleasure and pain that he knows neither of them have experienced with other human lovers.

And now here they are, playing domestic, where The Corinthian agrees to not murder anyone Hob doesn't explicitly approve of ahead of time, and in turn Hob spoils The Corinthian with anything he comes up with on a whim.

Well, almost anything.

"We are not getting a murder yacht,” Hob had said to him just the night before.

“Oh come on! It’d be so easy to get rid of the bodies with one!” The Corinthian argued back. “And the Channel will do all the cleanup for us!”

“Do you want to be on the radar of the British Royal Navy? Because that is exactly how you get on the radar of the British Royal Navy. Not to mention, I don’t know how to drive a boat, and I’m certain you don’t know either!”

The Corinthian does not pout on principle, but it’s an almost thing. Hob Gadling was a terrible influence.

“ He would get me a murder yacht,” The Corinthian declared, pointing to the television. Hob glanced at the screen and sighed loudly.

“Hannibal Lecter is a fictional character , Cory,” Hob said, exasperated. It’s not the first time The Corinthian had brought up the comparison, and really, if Hob didn’t want to be compared to a fellow doctorate holding intellectual with a DILF vibe and a hobby of murdering criminals for sport, then he really shouldn’t have let The Corinthian run free with his Netflix account while he's off tending to lectures.

Speaking of criminal murders, though. The Corinthian glances at the calendar on the wall above Hob's nightstand and grins when he realizes tonight's the night for their next job.

—

“ Another sex trafficking ring, Hob?” The Corinthian groans. It’s the third one in a row. “I know you're a bleeding heart for the helpless, but I’m starting to think you feel personally responsible here.” He probably does, in all honesty. Hob had mentioned to him how guilty he felt over participating in the slave trade in the late 1700s.

“I thought you liked the sex traffickers!” Hob exclaims, surprised. “Because there's always so many of them! You gorged yourself on eyeballs for days after the last one.”

“Yeah, sure they're great, but not so much when it’s what we go after every time . Where’s my corrupt CEOs, the drug lords, hell where’s another serial killer hiding, tell me, Hob!” Variety is the spice of life and while The Corinthian may be satisfied for now filling his palette with unrepentant humans, he still wants some flavor distinction amongst them from time to time.

"All right, all right, I promise you get to pick the next target after tonight," Hob assures him.

"Can it be-"

“No- we are not going to kill a Member of Parliament. There’s murder of the irredeemable every day man, and then there’s assassination , and we are clearly staying in the first camp, love.”

The Corinthian really doesn’t see the difference. Dead people are dead people, but Hob’s the mortal in this relationship, so The Corinthian just shrugs and decides to think on who he’d like for them to go after next. He thinks he’ll consult his little black book on the matter.

Hob thinks it's ridiculous that blond keeps a hit list, but then if he didn’t want him to, then he shouldn’t have bought The Corinthian such a nice leather bound journal in the first place.

—

Much as The Corinthian hates to admit it (and he'll never do it aloud), Hob is right about the gluttony of hunting down sex enslavers.

There had been at least six men guarding the shipping container that had come in to dock the night before. Two more are in charge of negotiating the handoff, and still another three show up as drivers to transport their "cargo".

In short, it had been a blood bath. None of the men had ever stood a chance.

The Corinthian doesn't quite have a stomach, so he doesn't get full, per say, but there does come a point where there's diminishing returns on the enjoyment he feels the more he eats in a single sitting.

For occasions where he hits that point, like tonight, Hob has acquired an extra refrigerator. It's an antique red monstrosity that the immortal had flown in from a shop in Oklahoma just because The Corinthian had complained one time that English kitchens were too drab for his tastes. The blond had made fun of Hob's peasant roots at the start of their relationship, but Hob is no peasant now. It’s another one of the ways the immortal is sin-incarnate, his willingness to indulge The Corinthian’s hedonism at the drop of a hat is both endearing and addicting. The Corinthian has more than enough mortal money of his own, but there’s just something extra enticing about spending another man’s wealth on unnecessary luxuries like this.

Sometimes, The Corinthian will wake to the smell of cooking flesh, and he'll find Hob has fried a pair of eyes for him in his homemade garlic butter. He'd then spend the morning hand feeding them to each of The Corinthian's eye mouths, before handing him a cup of black coffee. It’s domestic. It’s overindulgent. The Corinthian thinks he'll ask for them to be mixed with scrambled eggs tomorrow instead.

–

"I’ve got a surprise for you," Hob says once they've wrapped everything up at the docks. He stamps out the last bit of his cigarette before continuing. "Call it a bonus for a job well done."

"Dessert? You spoil me, baby," The Corinthian grins, unable to hide his excitement. Hob is good at surprises. So far, The Corinthian has yet to be disappointed.

The brunette drives them over a few bridges to a different shipping port on the other side of town. He makes sure that there’s no one on guard before he leads them over to a particular container, which he unlocks and leads The Corinthian inside. There's a few lights strung up on the inside, enough for The Corinthian to easily look at his prize.

Near the center of the container is a single man tied to a chair with a bag over his head. He sounds like he’s gagged underneath the bag as well. The Corinthian cannot help the little gasp of pleasure he lets out when Hob pulls the bag off.

The man is dressed in a three piece suit that was probably freshly pressed a day or two ago, but now sits wrinkled as a result of futile struggling. He’s got multiple layers of duct tape over his mouth, as expected. The Corinthian also clocks a newer Rolex model on the man’s left wrist barely hidden by a sleeve pinned together with solid gold cuffs. He looks like he would be incredibly well groomed if he weren’t currently rotting in a shipping container, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes that are now comically wide as he takes in his two captors. The man cannot be more than 28 years old at most, which just screams Daddy’s Boy to the Corinthian. It’s his favorite type of meal.

“All for me, baby? You shouldn’t have.” The Corinthian purrs, and he can feel his eyes drooling at the sight, the smell, the exquisite taste, of the man’s fear.

“Only the best for you, love,” Hob murmurs in his ear, hands resting possessively at his hip, voice dripping with pleasure. The Corinthian shudders when Hob delicately removes his shades and places a tender kiss to each of his eye mouths, dragging his tongue along their teeth. They come to life under his attention, all soft sighs and heavy breaths. The man in the chair is now thrashing wildly in horror, his screams muted by the tape.

“His name’s Thomas Mason, Hob supplies. "Father’s done pretty well for himself in the United States, but he insisted on his kids being raised in the home country. Tom here is a little bit of a brat you see. Awful student too, he's been kicked out of at least three universities in London." The Corinthian snorts at the blatant offense Hob seems to take at this fact.

"Knocked up some poor girl when she was far too drunk to fully consent at a networking event," he continues. "And then he killed her when she told him she wasn’t going to abort. I have it on good authority that he’s buried her out in his mother’s country house. Naturally, Scotland Yard isn’t really looking into it since she was here on a student visa and his parents have more than enough money to make it look like she just got up and disappeared out of the country on her own. Her family’s absolutely distraught."

"Distraught, you say?" The Corinthian asks in mock concern. "Well, we can't have that now." He takes out his knives from their holsters in his jacket, and now the man in the chair is moving even more wildly in his chair, trying to tip it over, maybe hoping to break it and free himself. It won't matter, there's nowhere to go in the tiny container. The Corinthian cuts a line through Tom's throat to get him to stop thrashing and then begins to start the task of carving out those gorgeous blue orbs.

The start of the task is always the hardest. Humans are so sensitive when it comes to their faces, but they all give up soon enough, and Tom is no exception. It’s all in the thumbs, really. Once they’re sufficiently popped out, all The Corinthian has to do afterwards is sever the optic nerve, and bam, instant snack. Hob had winced the first few times he watched The Corinthian had done this while the victim was still alive (their memories are freshest when he does this, even if he stores them in the fridge for later), but now he watches with rapt attention, unable to tear his gaze away from The Corinthian's skilled yet brutal movements.

When he’s done, The Corinthian savors the taste of Thomas Mason’s eyes, drinks in the memory of hands choking the life out of a pretty little thing too young to be taken from the world, then revels in the feel of the cool dirt underneath his fingernails during the memory of her crude burial.

“She’s buried right by the rose bushes, near the west wing," The Corinthian says, and Hob’s proud, dark grin tells him he will, in fact, be getting breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.

–

They don’t argue often, but when they do, it always comes back to the same topic. The Corinthian doesn’t even know how or why they started talking about Dream, but he hates the way Hob prods about their relationship, asks about why everything fell apart and led The Corinthian to permanently leave The Dreaming.

“It's better the less you know about him,” The Corinthian says with a finality he hopes Hob will understand.

He doesn’t. "Why?” he presses. “Because you don't like talking about him?"

"Because he's dangerous!" The Corinthian snaps. "He tried to unmake me almost a hundred years ago, and if he ever gets out of his cage and finds out about you…"

"You're worried about me, pet?" Hob’s tone is light, but The Corinthian knows he’s trying to distract him from the threat of Dream’s return.

"Well you're not exactly the pinnacle of human safety if we’re being honest, baby." The Corinthian grumbles.

"I’m immortal, can’t die, remember?" Hob quips in response.

"Right, right, immortality from your eldritch Stranger that broke your heart," The Corinthian sneers back at him.

"Oof, low blow, Cory," Hob winces.

The use of the nickname cools his anger slightly, but only just.

"Is it?" he challenges. The Corinthian is not an open creature by nature, but Hob is also sensitive about his centennial Stranger. He claims he's told The Corinthian all that he knows about him, but The Corinthian finds it hard to believe that Hob had been meeting the same being for 600 years and somehow, inexplicably, does not even know his name. Then again, The Corinthian has not told Hob the name of his creator either. He doesn't know why, but the knowledge of Dream's name is something he wants to keep to himself.

Hob also won't talk about why he and his Stranger had a falling out either. He just knows the creature missed their 1989 meeting, and now Hob has no choice but to wait for 2089 to see if their relationship can be salvaged. The Corinthian, petty creature that he is, still refuses to set foot inside The New Inn, a place dedicated to someone else. He does, however, relish in the fact that shortly after he moved in with Hob, the immortal had begun to spend less and less time in the pub, possibly hoping for an earlier than 100 year sighting of his Stranger.

"All right, all right I get it," Hob placates, and finally throws up his hands in surrender. "No more creator talks, and no more stranger talks tonight, all right?"

"Or we could forget about them all together," The Corinthian tries, wishing to never speak about Dream ever again. Dream's gone, he's trapped, has been trapped for 100 years, and yet The Corinthian feels him at his back each night when he turns off the light and watches Hob sleep.

"Hmmm, I don’t think so," Hob says, thoughtful. "I can’t forget my old friend, yes he’s my friend damnit,” the immortal insists. “And even with your creator locked up who knows where, because you won't tell me, I know you can’t forget him either. And that’s okay. We don’t need to talk about them now, but a relationship is about moving on from past baggage so we’ll need to get there eventually, but it doesn’t have to be now, love.”

"I’ve tried for at least two millennia to move on already," The Corinthian admits, surprised at his own openness.

Hob smiles fondly, because he knows even getting that much out of The Corinthian is better than nothing, and then cups the blond's face gently between his hands.

"Well, you’ve never had me before, darling.” Hob says, tone back to reassuring and gentle. “I can’t promise to heal all your wounds and scars, but I’m going to do my best to love you as you are, murderous tendencies and all. And if your creator ever does get out of his cage, we'll deal with him together."

The Corinthian, even after spending years in Hob’s bed, is still not used to hearing the immortal declare his love for him. Hob offers his love far too easily, and he hasn’t even asked why The Corinthian has yet to say it back. He almost does, just now. It's on the tip of his tongue.

"You’re insane, you know that?" The Corinthian says instead. He’s not ready to inspect his feelings, not yet, not while he’s still taut as a piano wire.

Hob nods, like he knows what’s going on inside The Corinthian’s head, and maybe he does. "Well, you don’t live past the normal mortal expiration date without losing a few screws along the way," he says, and starts tugging The Corinthian towards the bathroom. “Come on love, let’s have a bath. I’ve got a new vintage I’ve been wanting to try out."

Later, when the Corinthian is drunk and spilling wine all over Hob’s overly large and posh bathtub, he thinks that maybe, maybe, this is probably what love is supposed to feel like. They're kissing like Hob doesn't have to get up in the morning for a lecture, and the slowness of it stirs something familiar inside the nightmare.

He thought he'd loved Dream once, until he realized that his creator's affection for him had been conditional on The Corinthian fulfilling his singular assigned function. No room for growth, no room for ambition, for reaching past the limits of the Dreaming. All of the reverence and blind worship had evaporated then. Dream only cared for himself and his stupid rules, his creations were simply there to serve him without question.

Hob is different though. Hob has rules for him, sure, but he indulges The Corinthian when he's done well, negotiates when the situation calls for it, and he doesn't make The Corinthian's thoughts and opinions feel less than, like secondary, unimportant things. He also doesn’t hold The Corinthian’s past crimes against him.

Yes, The Corinthian thinks when Hob finally pushes his cock inside him, slowly, gently, lovingly. What he's got with Hob is probably love. Or at least as close to it as he'll ever get with his nightmarish heart.

He'll tell Hob. Eventually. When the time is right.

–

Their next operation goes tits up.

Statistically, even the best laid plans can go awry when murder is involved, but The Corinthian supposes they really should’ve anticipated a mob boss having more than a dozen men for backup, even if he was just vacationing out in the countryside.

Good thing neither Hob nor the Corinthian can die. Hob’s healing is not nearly as quick as his, but it’s quick enough.

The Corinthian imagines Hob must look like something of an eldritch horror to the mob men when he gets up off the ground, an entire chunk of face missing, and then stabs his shooter in the neck. The resulting blood spray is lovely, and The Corinthian takes a moment to bask in Hob's handiwork before he continues to gun down the rest of their assailants.

God, he's missed having access to guns. The Corinthian has a small collection of antique rifles in his penthouse back in the States, and though he's never used them for more than target practice, he likes the heavy weight of such a small and unassuming thing that holds so much potential for death, resting in his hands.

Using other people’s guns against them though? That’s an entirely different feeling, one that The Corinthian is all too happy to indulge.

All total, there’s around 25 men dead in the villa after Hob and The Corinthian are through. More than double the amount they expected to be here. The Corinthian makes a note to pay a visit to his source later to personally thank him for the terrible intelligence.

“Hey Cory, look what I found!” Hob’s voice sounds throughout the otherwise quiet room.

When he locates the immortal on the other side of the bloodied living room, he sees that he’s thrumming with excitement about something. When he gets closer, Hob holds up a mostly mangled piece of flesh that the Corinthian quickly realizes is the part of Hob’s face that was blown off with a rifle. Surprisingly, the eye socket is fully intact.

It’s the most beautiful thing The Corinthian has ever laid eyes on, and he wants.

Hob then offers the lump, eye socket and all, to The Corinthian with a pained grimace that he looks like he’s trying very hard to pass off as a smile. The Corinthian is too shocked to take it right away. It can’t possibly be that easy.

Can it?

Hob notices his hesitation and sighs.

“Might as well have it, it’s a goddamn miracle it’s even intact the way it is,” the immortal grunts. “I can already feel a new one growing in, and let me tell you, it fucking hurts. Waste not, want not and all."

The Corinthian knows that he shouldn’t think too deeply about the gift, it’s borne out of circumstance rather than intent after all, but the irony of being freely offered something he’d spent years trying to carve out of the man’s face himself is not lost on him.

The Corinthian gently takes the eye from Hob and cuts around the tender flesh, then pops the ball into his mouth.

The memories hit him like a monsoon.

The Corinthian has consumed hundreds, perhaps thousands of eyes at this point in time, but consuming Hob is an entirely different experience.

Hob's eyes have, by default, seen far more than a regular mortal, and so there’s just more, more, more to be seen and more to be experienced. It feels neverending.

He feels Hob’s determination to never die, even in the days before he was granted immortality. His surprise when he realizes that he's stopped aging. His fear at thinking he'd made a deal with the Devil himself.

He sees the immortal's warmest memories, feels the touch of his first silk shirt, hears the sound of his son's first cry, tastes the flavors of his first meal after being dubbed a knight.

He also witnesses Hob's worst memories, the horrors of war over the centuries, the stabbing pain of hunger that would have killed another man, the smell of decay from the bodies lost to The Black Plague, the pain of each and every time his body breaks but doesn't die.

But above all, he feels love. Pure, unfiltered, unconditional love. Love for humanity, for his long life, love for The Corinthian himself.

Love for his mysterious Stranger.

The Corinthian chokes when he realizes who this stranger finally is.

It’s Dream.

Of course it's fucking Dream.

"Cory? Are you all right?"

No he's not fucking all right. Nothing is ever going to be all right again. The Corinthian has never needed to breathe but in this moment he feels like he is suffocating.

Hob is Dream's pet immortal. The one that Death had spared on a bet with Dream back in 1389.

The Corinthian thinks he's a fool. That's why Hob doesn't smell like other immortals, because he smells just like Endless, like The Corinthian, like Dream .

He also knows now that Hob was telling the truth about not knowing Dream's name or what he was all this time. Dream's always had a stick up his ass about personal information, the only reason The Corinthian even knew his creator had a pet immortal in the first place was because The Corinthian had tried to follow his master out into The Waking once, back when their relationship was still good, when Dream still indulged him, when The Corinthian hadn't yet begun to hunger for more.

Dream had shut him down so fiercely, Lucienne had had to step in on his behalf. She was the one who filled The Corinthian in on the date and its significance to their creator. And, most importantly, that Dream went to these outings alone.

It had been the first time The Corinthian had experienced jealousy, and it had ignited a fire in him he did not know how to tame. Why did Dream get to go into The Waking for nothing more than his own pleasure? To experience humanity when his own subjects could not? Who was this human who had impressed him so much, had captured his attention enough that he stole his creator away from the Dreaming, time and time again? None of Dream's other human companions had ever been able to sway him so.

It makes sense to The Corinthian now that the human was Hob. The Corinthian devours the memories of their meetings, quick snatches in time, insignificant in length yet so significant in substance. He doesn't know if he wants to tear Hob's throat out for daring to call his Dream his friend , knowing now that it means something more, or if he wants to cut Dream's eyes out for the way he looks at his Hob.

Fuck. When had he gotten so possessive? When had he gotten so soft ? He'd been thinking just a few days ago that maybe he loved Hob, had been picturing the rest of their life together, had been thinking of their future .

If he'd known this would be the consequences for consuming Hob's eyes…

No, he still thinks he would've done it anyways. Even in his panic, the taste of Hob is so unique, so unlike anything he's ever experienced, The Corinthian thinks he could probably go on forever without having to consume another set of eyes. That thought terrifies him more than the idea of Dream hunting him down to unmake him for all his crimes.

He has to leave.

"I have to go," The Corinthian says, perhaps a little too forcefully. Hob nods quickly with no argument. It means he’s already realized something is wrong.

"All right we can go, I just gotta make sure the cameras-”

"No," The Corinthian interrupts and he says it with such venom that Hob whips his head towards him in alarm. The Corinthian steels his nerves for what he’s going to say next.

“I need to go, Hob. This…this was a mistake. All of this.” He gestures between them.

"Wait what?! What are you talking about?" Hob's beginning to panic now and The Corinthian can feel his resolve weaken. But he has to go. He’s been a fool, no, he's been willfully blind this whole time. He thought he’d finally found something, someone that was uniquely his , but all roads lead back to Dream, and The Corinthian feels pathetic for thinking he could ever escape the reach of his all knowing and all encompassing master.

Hob may love The Corinthian now, but he was Dream's human first, and Dream will not take kindly to the Corinthian touching what doesn't belong to him. The Corinthian thought he'd been afraid of his unmaking before, but it feels secondary to this new fear. The fear that Dream will go to Hob, that Dream will spill all The Corinthian’s crimes at Hob’s feet, will turn Hob against him, and then finally, steal him away for his own.

He'd rather burn down the only good thing he's ever known than let Dream take it away from him.

“Goodbye Hob. It's been fun but now our time's up.” The Corinthian does not stutter.

Shit, he can feel the tears. His shades hide them for now but if he doesn't leave now, then Hob will see.

“Cory, wait! Talk to me, please , what's going on…?"

But The Corinthian is already gone.

#hobrinthian #eventual hobrintheus #hob gadling #the corinthian #the sandman fanfic #lots of angst near the end of this chapter #but don't worry #next chapter is dreamling fluffy vibes #sandman fic #seiya writes #mystuff #seiya writes hobrintheus #seiya writes hobrinthian

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