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Summary
“Greedy little thing,” Dream says, almost idly, and the nightmare tips forward, resting his head against Dream’s hip as a shudder wracks his frame. His fingers flex against the waistband of Dream’s pants, entirely of their own accord, needy, greedy, and he bites back another whine. He’s asking for too much, he knows he is, but he can’t stop the wanting that bubbles inside him, the need he feels for Dream’s regard, his touch, his…
Then Dream hums, and one hand cards through the nightmare’s hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp. “Good,” he says, and the approval in his voice spills down the Corinthian’s spine like a caress. “Be greedy for me, little one.”