Chapter Text
"I need a fuckin' smoke."
Dream looks up towards the lava from where Quackity left him on the ground, squinting against the light to just about make out his torturer silhouetted against the molten rock struggling to light his cigarette. It's a little funny, honestly. Maybe. He rolls his eyes, just because he can--Quackity isn't looking at him, so. What's the damn harm.
He closes his eyes, feeling out the damage. His left arm is broken, forearm. Deep breath. His ribs creak ominously--bruised or broken as well, whatever. Quackity took the knife to his sides today, shallow tally marks, ignorable. His legs are mostly fine, just bruised. For now. Oh, and his hand is pinned to the floor by Quackity's dumb knife, broken fingers on that one. That's it though. Not shabby, really, for how long it's been. Damn near generous.
His nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke, Quackity muttering something or other to himself. In all fairness, Dream shouldn't get too excited too early. Asshole sounds pissed, which means that it'll probably be taken out on his hide. Back or legs, next? He's not sure. He moves his free arm a little--everything feels mobile enough. Back, he thinks. The whip, maybe. Quackity always uses the whip when he's running out of ideas.
Footsteps approaching. Damn it. He sucks in a breath, heartbeat quickening. It's fine, it's fine. Endure it. Whip, next. Maybe he'll have him lick his shoes first. His arm's broken, he likes cuffing them to the wall when that happens, making them bear his weight as the whip comes down. All manageable. Quackity squats down, blood on his stupid shoes, fuck those shoes. Dream hopes that the leather gets ruined.
"Hey, pal. Whatcha thinking about?" The cigarette hangs from Quackity's lips. Dream keeps his eyes closed as he schools his expression and gets the thing put out on his ribs. Jokes on him, now he's gotta relight it. Breathe. "Don't fucking ignore me, man, don't fucking think about ignoring me! I thought we were past this."
"S-sorry." His chest shakes, stuttering on the apology. Whatever. Give the guy something to chew on--god knows he'll get bored if he doesn't have some shit to make fun of. "Sorry, sir."
"Oh, c'mon now. You're calling that an apology?" He's tossed the other cigarette to the ground already, lighting a fresh one. Ass. "Dream, do we really have to go over this shit again? I'm getting tired of this man! Real fucking tired."
"I'm sorry s-sir. I'm a worthless, stupid little bitch, a-and I shouldn't have, shouldn't have, ignored you. I'm s-so sorry." Should he have laid it on thicker? Whatever. Maybe if Quackity feels like shitting on his stupid ass apology for the next ten minutes he'll be too preoccupied to start whatever the fuck he's planning next.
His eyes are leering, sharp. He inhales deeply and spits smoke into his face. Dream coughs, making a little sound when he forgets about his pinned hand and attempts to move it to cover his mouth. Quackity smiles at that, of fucking course.
"Damn right, you are. Dumb fucking bastard." He scoffs. "You're fucking pathetic man. Like, Jesus Christ."
"I'm pathetic, sir."
That manages to pull something closer to a real laugh out of him. His eyes scan over the damage, eyebrows furrowed. Dream knows better than to look straight at him, so he watches the ceiling instead, the rippled lines of smoke. The heel of Quackity’s palm gets ground into a bruise until he chokes on a cry. When his gaze slides back, his torturer’s expression has folded back into anger. Time to face the music then.
Quackity reaches for the knife in his hand, twisting it sharply before he takes it out. Dream screams. Quackity doesn't look impressed.
"Up and at 'em," He stands up, attention back on his cigarette. Dream breathes in deeply and fights past the terror, sits up. He pulls his hands into his lap, grits his teeth. His palm weeps blood, pinky and ring finger broken. Halfway, probably. They have to be about halfway through. Fifty percent. Just another fifty to go. Maybe he'll go for waterboarding, today. It's been awhile.
Quackity rounds back towards him, putting the second one out on his collarbone without a word. Dream stiffens, silent, counts in his head through the agony. Quackity watches him, expression flattening into a thin frown, dropping what's left of it to the ground and grinding it under his heel.
"You're a stubborn bastard, I'll give you that much," he mutters, dragging the tip of the knife down from below his eye to the corner of his lip, not quite enough to break skin "I'm almost impressed, man! I'm not going to lie, I'm almost impressed."
He sounds anything but. The blade hangs between his fingers as Quackity circles around him, the motions jerky, anxious in a way that sets his teeth on edge. Dream stares at the ground.
Quackity claps. The sound echoes in the small cell like a gunshot. Dream flinches, fingers twitching. When he looks up, Quackity is smiling again, the kind that's set on pins, all teeth. The gold one glints between his lips, his scar twisted strangely by his expression.
"You know what? You know what, Dream. I'll let you in on a secret, how about it pal?" He steps closer. "I don't know if you could tell, man, but I'm kinda--kinda sick of this shit. Business doesn't exactly run itself, if you know what I mean. You have any idea how much fuckin' paperwork I had last night? Gave me a real hell of a cramp in my right hand, I'll tell you that much."
He pops his knuckles, going back to walking around him in tight circles.
"It's not easy, man. Some of us have got better things to do than sit on our asses all day, you know? But I'll let you in on a secret, pal, I'm kinda--kinda tired, actually!" He punches out a laugh, the point of his knife digging into the back of Dream's neck. He sits perfectly still, breathing through his nose. "And, you know, I bet you're pretty tired too, aren't you? Relax, fuckin' hell, you're so fucking tense."
"Sorry, sir."
"This is exactly what I mean, you know." Quackity prods at the base of his spine with the toe of his shoe. "Well, my hand hurts, we both need a bit of a break--shit, man, you know what a guy like you needs? Some god damned stress relief. Whaddya say?"
Quackity has rounded back to his front. He's got his hands tucked in his pockets, thumbs on the outside. He clicks his tongue. Dream stares back at him, eyes wide.
"You hear me, Dream?"
He swallows, throat bobbing.
"You gonna make me spell it out?" He laughs. "C'mon now. I thought we were having a moment, here!"
Dream stares back at him dumbly.
The smile on Quackity's face collapses. He gestures with his knife. "That means take off your fucking pants, pal. Don't make me say it again."
Dream reaches for his waistband, popping the button, undoing the zipper. Quackity's gaze burns, watching his every move. He should've seen this coming, in all fairness. Quackity was running out of ideas, and he always seems to fall back on this one when he's that particular mix of angry and insecure. At least neither of his legs are broken--this process could always be a thousand times more painful. Story of his life, nowadays. Don't worry about the broken fingers, because he could always have his entire hand mangled by a hammer; who cares about the cigarette burns when it could be the branding iron. And so it goes. His face burns, and he hesitates for another second once he's pulled his legs free, stripped of everything but his boxers.
Quackity clicks his tongue again, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he pulls them off as well. The hesitation is part of this, the whole song and dance of it. Quackity expects it, for him to be all shivery and cowed and nervous when this comes up, for his expression to stutter into something pleading and helpless. For him to be scared of this, for his composure to break--and so he leans in.
He squeezes his legs together, holding onto his underwear tightly to hide himself from view, eyes on the ground. Quackity stalks closer, wiping his hand off on the leg of his pants and then putting it palm up in front of his eyes, tutting softly.
"Don't be like that, now. Give it to me." He smiles at him, faux gently, talking to him like a sick dog. Dream makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat. "You know what I want. You want me to leave? Then give me the book, we put all of this behind us."
Dream shivers, placing the balled up fabric in Quackity's outstretched hand. He laughs, patting his head.
"There we go. Good boy."
Now for his line. Stage direction: Dream begs, sounding panicky. “ Please, sir.”
“Don’t start with the begging already. We’ve barely started!” Quackity eases his shoe between his legs, kicking them apart. The smile on his face is still taut, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners now with real amusement. Hook, line, sinker. Dream squirms in his seat, legs trembling, closing his eyes and looking away. Quackity snaps his fingers. “Uh-uh-uh. None of that now. Buck up, man, I’m doing you a favor.”
His voice has quieted, taken on that particular tone that means he’s making sure not to be heard across the lava. He grinds the sole of his shoe between Dream’s legs.
“You’re lucky, honestly. I don’t exactly do favors for just about anyone.” Dream bites down on the retort that from what he’s heard, Quackity seems eager enough to fuck just about anyone. “A sorry fella like you sure doesn’t have much to look forward to in here, I’ll tell you that much. This is downright humanitarian. You know what I haven’t heard enough from you today? You know what? I think you owe me some god damned gratitude, pal. Go on.”
Dream’s breathing hitches as he steps down again. “ Fuck you.”
“Don’t sound so eager now.” Quackity laughs, dark and amused. Dream smooths back his relief. The line between obedience and lashing out can be a hard one to walk when Quackity is here, making sure not to bore him, making sure not to egg him on too much. His hand fists in his hair, pulling it harshly as the pressure from his foot increases. Dream keens.
He lets go, rocking back on his heels.
“Hands and knees. Don’t waste any more of my time.” Quackity moves to put down his briefs, placing them on top of his pants, careful not to let them soak up too much blood. There’s only so much, after all, that won’t raise any questions from the Warden. Dream pulls his legs into a kneel, first, then slides his arms in front of him, forearms flat on the ground. They scream in protest, his hand throbbing, most of his weight having to fall on his right arm considering the state of his left. He finds his balance, holds it, breathes in steadily.
Quackity’s hand finds its way back in his hair, yanking his head up. “There you go. So the bitch can learn.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not yet. We just went over this.” His knuckle traces over the line of some scar, tapping at his cheekbone. “Look at that ugly mug. You look like roadkill, pal. Definitely not going to be winning any beauty awards any time soon.”
Dream stares at the scar splitting Quackity’s own face with a spark of vicious satisfaction simmering in the back of his head and says nothing.
“Nothing to say?”
“Y’seem to like the sound of your own voice so much, I didn’t want to interrupt,” Dream murmurs, barely over a whisper. “Sir.”
Quackity’s eye flashes, and he backhands him across the face, nearly making him topple over. “I’ve fucking had it with your attitude, pal. You’re just that much of a fuckin’ whore, is that right? Real tough guy, think you’re hot shit now, don’t you?”
“Please, please, please—”
“Yeah, keep whining, you little bitch. You want to get to it? Fine, let’s get the fuck on with it. A dumb slut like you just can’t fucking wait, isn’t that right.”
He pulls something out of his inventory, and Dream’s heart skips a beat. He’s holding a metal spike, possibly supposed to be for a tent, somewhat vaguely rectangular in form, almost as long as his forearm and maybe half as thick. The end of it tapers into a blunt point. His wrists twinge—he remembers this, remembers the hammer, remembers the feel of it being driven through bone into a crack in the ground, and he swallows thickly, his mouth dry. Quackity hasn’t gotten anything else out, however, just keeps holding it loosely in his hands, dangling it in Dream’s face as he gives him a pointed look, impatient almost, and—oh. Oh.
“What? You’re looking pale.” Quackity is smiling again, oozing sick satisfaction. “And you were just begging me to fuck you a minute ago.”
“It’s not—” He’s still reeling. He—surely, surely not? “It’s not gonna fit.”
“Well, we won’t know until we try.” Quackity moves to step behind him and his chest seizes in nauseous terror—no, god no, it’ll literally kill him—
“Quackity—“
He strikes him with the stake, and Dream chokes on a scream as it catches on his bad ribs. God, fuck, it’s solid fucking metal—“sir, please! ”
“Please what?” The metal glides over his back, cold. Ice down his spine. “I don’t have the fucking patience for this, man. Spit it out.”
“ Please —” his mind races uselessly, still on his hands and fucking knees, fuck, “m-may I suck it off. Sir.”
Quackity pauses. “What was that?”
Dream shuts his eyes against a wave of despairing humiliation. It’s not even gonna help —he’s going to—Sam would stop this? He should—he can’t—
“Please. May I, may I suck off the spike, sir. Wanna, want it—in my mouth.”
Quackity waits a long second to give him an answer, lets him soak in the silence, the fucking rabbit race of his heart, before he breaks it with a sharp laugh.
“Aww, Dream. All you had to do was ask.” He rounds back to his front, tapping the point of the spike against his lips. “Go on then. Because I’m feeling nice.”
He nods, wrapping his lips around the metal and taking it as deep as he can possibly manage—the sight of Quackity holding the other end only proves to drive home how fucking ridiculous this is, his mouth only able to accommodate a few inches of the stupid thing despite his best efforts. He doesn’t pay attention to Quackity, just focusing every part of himself on producing as much saliva as he possibly can and trying to get it to stick to the metal stake. He’s dehydrated, probably, which doesn’t help, and trying to get a little more of it down only makes him choke and sputter. That makes Quackity pull the damn spike out with a laugh, running a finger along one edge and patting his cheek condescendingly.
“That’s enough. Remember to breathe, you know. No passing out on me, got it?” Dream stiffens further with every step Quackity takes behind him, out of sight. The anticipation is, awful. Worst fucking part. Maybe. “If you pass out on me, man, you’ll be fucking sorry.”
His hand on his ass. Breathe in, out. A swat, making him cry out mostly from surprise, then prodding. Pulling him apart, the cold press of metal, still a little wet. He thinks. He has to relax. If he’s tense, this’ll be a million times worse.
His breath hitches as the point of it presses past his rim, tightening up again in terror. Relax, you fucking idiot, relax— Quackity keeps pushing it in, unheeding, the tapered end quickly swelling to its full width, the edges cutting into his skin, inside him, oh god oh god oh god. His lungs stutter, his legs struggling to keep him up, at least they’re not broken today, oh god. Blood trickles down the inside of his thigh, roars in his ears.
“—ream, Dream, don’t lose it on me already, man. We’ve barely even started.” Quackity’s nails dig into his lower back, little pinpricks of pressure, barely felt over the fucking, ripping him open, fuckfuckfuckfuck—“you hearing me, pal? Hey, dipshit, I said no fucking passing out.”
“P—please, fuck, please—“
“Please fuck you? We’re kind of in the middle of that, man.”
Everything below his waist is angry, white-hot agony, every shift of the cursed thing inside him making his lungs spasm. He’s lightheaded, the metal unforgiving as Quackity just keeps fucking pushing it in, splitting him in half, it’s too much it’s going to break him he’s going to tear something, inside, bleed him dry god—“ please! ”
“Please what , Dream.”
“Please, sir, please pleasepleaseplease stop, sir, sir please, stop— STOP—“
Quackity stops. He doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t think he could see anything even if he tried. His arms wobble unsteadily underneath him, straining to keep him upright. He sobs, nauseous. He should’ve, should’ve—
“We’re not done yet, man. Don’t get too excited.” Quackity rakes his nails down his back. “Stay with me now, Dream, unless you want us to do the whole thing over again.”
“P—please, sir, please,” he tries to focus on breathing. Endure it, fuck, all he can fucking do. “Please, just. Please.”
“You know, I still haven’t gotten my fucking gratitude. Let’s hear it, Dream.”
“Thank, thank you,” he manages, chest heaving, his vision whiting out as Quackity resumes the task at hand with a harsh push that knocks all the air from his lungs. “Thank youthankyou sir THANK YOU—“
“That’s more like it! That’s more fucking like it.” He scrabbles at the floor, every movement punching out little gasping sounds and whines and screams, feeling the damn spike in his fucking throat , still moving deeper how the fuck is it still fucking deeper, “keep fucking screaming, Dream! Don’t even think about stopping, got it?”
He screams. Apologies, begging, gratitude, anything and everything that comes to mind, anything to keep him from thinking about the metal spike in his guts, killing him—no, not killing him, he’s not dying. Quackity’s name, sir, chokes on a call for Sam—if he’s there, Sam can hear him, surely, listening to him across the lava, begging. His voice breaks off into a sobbing cry that turns into a low moan.
Finally, finally, after—he’s not even sure how long—Quackity stops. Dream shakes, all of him shakes, his limbs under him trembling like a newborn foal. He breathes, sobs, keeps breathing, trying to force his lungs to work around the thing spearing through his insides. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. God, fuck , get it together, not all that different from being fucking disemboweled, Quackity’s gutted him before, taken a knife to his intestines, get it the fuck together—he’s not sure how much has been forced inside of him, doesn’t dare look back. Doesn’t matter.
Quackity whistles, his voice still pitched low. “How’s that feel, Dream? How’s that fucking feel?”
He whines. “Hu—urts.”
“You’ve been walking around with a stick up your ass for so long, man, this can’t be that different.” The stake is jostled. Dream screams. “Yeah, that’s fucking right. You thought you were a big fuckin’ deal, I bet, thought you owned the place, god of the whole fucking server, isn’t that right? But you’re just a horny little bitch.”
“Jus’ a…jus’a, li’l, bitch—sir, sir— “
The drag of it being pulled out makes his arms buckle, choking on a sob, blood lubricating its movement inside him to allow Quackity to move it faster, before it’s thrust back inside him with a sick squelch. He heaves, retching.
“Hands and fucking knees, man.” Quackity might laugh as he keeps going, the sound ringing in his ears as he tries to pull himself upright, counting the seconds, seeing stars. Endure it, fuck, endure. He’s losing time, skipping numbers, mouth moving around words of its own accord, not that he has any idea what he’s saying. All he can hear is the awful sound of the metal stake, in and out.
The next thing he’s conscious of is Quackity’s hand on his jaw, shaking it back and forth. He feels like the entire bottom half of his body has been replaced with lava. Little by little, he drags his mind back, looks up at the man in front of him, focuses on the dark glare of his eye staring straight at him.
“--you go, there you are. You back with me, pal?” He nods, and the hand lets go. He lets his head hang, hair in front of his eyes. Quackity leaves his vision, back behind him again. Pleas bubble up his throat, incoherent, please sir please please pleasestopnomorecan’tplease—
Quackity grips onto whatever’s not inside of him and twists, and he falls to the ground in a strangled scream, white noise.
When he’s come back to himself again, he’s lying limp on the ground. Quackity is standing in front of him, leather shoes flecked with blood. He follows them up, ears still ringing, his head cottony—Quackity is palming himself, pants unzipped. He closes his eyes.
Opens them again as a shoe is ground against his bad hand, yelping. Looks up. Quackity smirks down at him.
He jerks himself off without another word, occasionally stepping on his broken fingers until he cries out from the pain. He watches dumbly, eyes watery, face a wreck of tears and snot and drool. Quackity is hard in his own grip, stroking slowly, high off his misery. Dream’s lungs struggle around every breath. Nothing feels real.
He blinks, and Quackity has disappeared. Finished? A pulling sensation behind him, fuck. No, then. The metal spike is ripped out of him in one fluid motion, a yank and a twist. He vomits again, his vision blinking out. Blood between his legs, unhindered by the, the thing, against the backs of his thighs, so much. He barely feels it as Quackity grabs his waist, pulls him up and seats himself inside, hips flush with his ass. He moans, sir, blood, skin against skin—he can’t imagine that it feels enjoyable, but soon enough Quackity’s pace is quickening; he blinks, blinks again, and he’s already done, cum on the ground.
He’s cold. He falls to the floor when Quackity lets go of him, dead weight, blood still pooling between his legs, under him, everywhere. Too much. There’s the vague sense of, something—muffled alarm at the back of his skull; something is wrong. His throat works around a word, fails miserably at spitting it out, heart racing racing racing, head pulsing with it, throbbing. Colors bleed into each other, swirl together. His lungs stutter, wheezing helplessly, please, please.
Something knocks against his teeth, cold and hard. Slides between his half-parted lips, head pulled back, down his throat—he swallows, reflexively. His vision sharpens immediately, healing on his tongue, the tell-tale feeling of magic sinking deep inside him and pulling him together—he moans, shutting his eyes against it, agony and relief a knot at the back of his throat. The pain hasn’t disappeared, but he can breathe around it now—inhale, count, then breathe out. Quackity stares at him, dregs of panic still visible in the edges of his expression, quickly fading away.
After a long second, he scoffs, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He turns towards the lava. “Clean yourself up.”
There’s a potion of healing already beside him. Dream rolls over onto his back, breathing harshly through his nose, fumbling for the bottle. He dips two fingers inside, gathering the potion over his fingers, closing his eyes and feeling tenderly between his legs. There’s blood all over him, still tacky, but the bleeding seems to have stopped; his whole mouth tastes of watermelon, sickly sweet. Quackity had to have fucked up, to force one of those. He knows Sam doesn’t like when Quackity has him take them orally because things heal wrong, infection more likely to go unnoticed, bones needing to be reset, the works, all lengthening the process of patching him up after. He looks at his arm, winces. Case in point. He’s deciding that it’s a good thing, today, if only because it’ll mean that Quackity’ll have to deal with a neurotic Warden on his ass.
The healing magic feels awful, feels good, feels like his insides getting rearranged all fucking over again. He grits his teeth against the sensation and silences both the sounds of discomfort and relief with his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, pushing his fingers in deeper to feel for any more tearing. He rushes it, not wanting to take any more time with this part of the process than he needs to even with the lack of pain, relatively. Fuck that, Quackity’s gotten enough of a fucking show.
He doesn’t seem to be looking at him, though, smoking at the other end of the cell, already put together. Fucking prick. Fucking coward, he thinks viciously, pulling out his hand and swiping it roughly against the ground, smearing the rest of the healing on the cuts on his sides, the burns from earlier. Doesn’t have the goddamn guts, keeping all of this secret, constantly paranoid about Sam finding out, what a damn prick. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, bullshit, fuck all of him. He catches a brief glance of the discarded—thing, coated in blood and viscera, and turns away from it with his stomach churning.
“You finished?” Quackity is still lingering by the lava; maybe he’s jacking off, whatever. Dream gathers himself together, finds what remains of his dignity and shrugs it on.
“Yes.”
Quackity turns around. His fly is down. Dream doesn’t point it out, looking up at him instead of at the wreck that’s overtaken the cell floor around him. Quackity’s eye traces over him, then moves to his left; Dream follows it to the puddle of cum on the ground and hates.
“Doesn’t look like you’re finished, man.” Quackity nods at it, sneering. “Take care of that.”
“And—and what if I don’t?”
Quackity’s eyebrows furrow. Oh, so he said that out loud. Well—Dream tips his chin up, trying for defiance, hoping that he’s hitting the mark. Fuck it. Fuck it, who fucking cares anyway.
“What was that?”
“W-what if I don’t? I mean, you looked—you looked like you had a good time putting it there.” Dream spits the words out. “You looked like you were really enjoying yourself.”
Quackity laughs. It sounds disbelieving. “Are you shitting me? Are you really—you can’t be serious.”
“I—I’m not cleaning it up. Do it yourself.”
Quackity stalks closer. His eye glitters, furious. Dream stares at it, not breaking eye contact.
“Want to repeat that?”
“G-go on. Do it again, sir. ” Please don’t. Dream wills himself to stop speaking, but his mouth just keeps on moving anyway. “I won’t clean that up either. So either you do it, or—or Sam finds out. It’s your choice.”
“Are you threatening me?” Another brittle punch of laughter. “No way! Are you trying to fucking threaten me, Dream?”
“You’re the one with something to hide. Not me. Technically. So—so.” Dream tries not to flinch as Quackity glares at him, anger darkening his expression with every word. “So, I’m just—saying. If I don’t clean it up, and you don’t clean it up, then, you know. He’ll find out. And you don’t want that to happen.”
Quackity’s expression is a thundercloud. Dream swallows.
“I’m telling you one more time, and I’m being fucking serious, man, I’m not joking around. Clean. It. Up.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
Quackity kicks him hard in the stomach, making him curl in on himself. Okay, well, he was expecting that. He tucks his head in, covering it with his arms, waiting for the beating to end. It doesn’t take very long.
“You think I give a shit, Dream, you really think I give a shit? You’re just that much of a slut, aren’t you, you just want it that fucking badly— ”
“I’m right! I’m right, you know I’m right,” he screams, breathless. Even now, Quackity won’t say the word slut at over a murmur. “You don’t want him to find out, you, you’re scared , you’re a little pussy, you’re afraid of him! You’re, you’re practically fucking whispering, you can’t get too much blood on my fucking boxers, you have to heal me after so I don’t bleed through my fucking pants, make it all spick and span so Sam won’t know, isn’t that right, you’re a coward— ”
Quackity kicks him again. Dream lets out a low whine like a dog, but forces himself to smile up at him. He’s right. They both know he’s fucking right.
“Fighting fucking words from a little bitch,” Quackity snarls, voice low and soft in his ear, “you’ve got memory loss now, pal? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, you know, from where I’m standing, you sure as hell sounded like you were fucking scared when I had you on your hands and knees a few minutes ago. Are you just that fucking desperate for another round, huh? Need something up your ass that badly?”
Dream glares back at him. “What if I tell him.”
“You won’t.” Quackity’s expression betrays him, twisting at the words, his jaw tightening. Dream lifts up his chin, feeling his heart running a mile a minute in his throat.
“What if I do? You don’t know that.” He breathes in, out. Quackity’s face is mere inches from his. “What if I tell him. Then what.”
Quackity is silent for a long minute before he sneers, then laughs.
“You know what, Dream? You know what?” He grabs his face, looking him in the eye. “I don’t think you have the goddamn guts. ”
“I’ll tell him. Today.”
“I don’t think you will, actually! But you know what? Go for it, pal. Whatever you want.” Quackity shakes him by his jaw, then lets go of him, leaning back and stretching. “Go on. Tell him. See if Sam fucking believes you after I leave here whistling and tell him about all the lies you were planning on spreading about me. See if he gives a shit about a puddle of cum when I caught you jacking off when I arrived. Go for it, man! I’m not even going to lie, I wanna see how it goes! I really do!”
“You’re scared. You’re literally scared of him.”
“You think he’s going to give a shit? You really think Sam’s going to fucking believe you? Sam.” Quackity laughs, shrill. “ Sam. You’re getting desperate, pal, do you fucking hear yourself? I know you’ve got stockholm syndrome or some shit, but Sam kinda hates your fucking guts, man!”
“Then tell him yourself. If he’s your, your pal or whatever.”
“You know what? Maybe I will, Dream! Maybe I will. You getting bored in here? You want him to join in?” Quackity’s hand goes to his throat, making him shudder despite his best efforts. He can feel his resolve cracking, the humiliation and fear from earlier flooding back in, skin crawling at every touch. “You deserve this. For what you’ve done to every fucking person on this server. You think anyone’s going to fucking believe you? You think Sam’s going to fucking believe you?”
“Then leave it. I—I don’t care. Leave it. I’m not cleaning it up.”
“I think I will! I think I will. Maybe I should tell Sam the bad fucking behavior his prisoner’s been getting to in the meantime. How d’you think he’ll react when I tell him you tried to attack me today, hmm?”
“Do it. Like I care.”
Quackity scrapes his nails over his chest. Dream flinches, lips tight.
“Fuck it. You think I’m fucking scared of you? You think I give a shit about your threats?” A flash of silver, and Dream makes a ragged sound as something stabs into him, scraping his collarbone. “I don’t need Sam, buddy, to get you on your knees and begging. I didn’t need Sam to make you scream my fucking name. You’re nothing , you’re less than nothing, you’re less than the dust under my fucking shoes, you hear me? You’re my bitch , Dream, you fucking hear me?”
Dream yelps as Quackity grabs him by his hair, dragging him forward. He shoves his face into the ground, rubbing his nose in the mess.
“Lick it the fuck up, or I’ll take off your fucking fingers.”
The press of cold metal against the joint makes him jolt, panic pressing against his windpipe. He complies. Whatever. Whatever.
Quackity pulls him up by his hair when he’s done, throwing him onto the ground. He heaves an axe up with both hands, scowling as he swings it down against Dream’s knee with a dull crack. Dream bites off a scream, fighting bile at the back of his throat.
“Put on your fucking pants. Fucking freak.” Quackity spits, kicking his bad leg. Dream crawls, muffling his sounds of pain. The confidence from earlier has melted into nausea, nerveless terror. He keeps his eyes closed as he pulls on his boxers—it’s fine. It’s fine , he’s right , Quackity’s stupid ass power plays are only more evidence that he’s an insecure little pussy. Fuck him.
When he looks back up, Quackity has the whip in one hand, chains wrapped around the other. He nearly laughs at the sight. He can’t even say he’s surprised. Endure it , he chants in his own head, staring Quackity down with every bit of stubborn defiance he has left to himself.
It’s not until after he’s left that he realizes, distantly, that Quackity didn’t ask for the book a single damn time.
Quackity is smoking when he steps off the bridge, already a bad sign. Sam’s already raised hackles rise further, teeth set on edge as he scans Quackity’s frame, the blood dripping off of his arms. He presses his lips together in a thin frown as Quackity jabs his thumb over his shoulder, scowling.
“Better get to it, man.”
“How is he?” Sam restocked his medkit today, at least. The muffled screams he heard over the lava were as good of a sign as any that he’d need it, and he’s already glad for his earlier discretion. Quackity glares at him, blowing a puff of smoke from between his lips. “Those things are going to kill you, you know.”
“Fuck off, man. You gonna do your job or what?” Quackity snaps. Sam’s frown deepens.
“I am doing my job.”
“Yeah, fuckin’ whatever. He’s bleeding. Stupid bitch.” Quackity breaks off into another stream of curses under his breath. “I’m hitting the fucking showers. Go make sure the asshole doesn’t die.”
Sam’s hand twitches, none-too-happy with how Quackity has seemingly taken to ordering him around. He looks over Quackity a second time, slower, gauging the damage from the amount of blood soaked into his clothes. It’s not the most reliable tell, but it’s the best he’s got until he’s back with Dream.
“Your—uh. Your pants, are…”
Quackity looks down, curses, does up his fly. Sam has his eyes on the vomit on the cuffs. He closes his eyes.
“You should be more careful. Is it—bad?”
“Sam, just fucking deal with him already. Jesus Christ.”
“You know you should…”
Quackity ignores him, trudging off to the showers, blood trailing behind him. Sam looks between his retreating back and the lava behind him, grip tightening on his medkit. Save for the bubbling of the molten rock, the room is silent. He thinks about Dream’s ragged screams, the distorted calls of his name. The netherite barrier is still up, blocking his view of the prisoner in the cell.
He sighs, stepping onto the bridge. Dream, first. The conversation with Quackity will just have to wait.