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“You’re not scared enough.”
Sam’s armor glints red, the man’s giant form an inscrutable silhouette in the light from the lava behind him.
“You’re not scared enough,” he repeats, voice crackling with distortion through the mask.
Dream eyes his warden.
“Scaring me isn't your job,” he counters dismissively. Sam rarely ventures all the way over to Dream’s cell – preferring to keep an eye on his prisoner from a distance – so whatever he has planned that gives him a reason to come here can’t be good, and Dream refuses to give him any leverage for it.
“No,” Sam agrees in a monotone, “but you should be scared. You should suffer for everything you’ve done, and I don’t like that you’re not.”
Dream scoffs. “Who are you to decide that?” he says. Sam is wrong, actually: Dream is scared every second he’s in the prison, but he will never ever give his warden the satisfaction of knowing it.
“I’m in charge here,” Sam replies. “Who else is going to decide?” He takes a step forward, and then another, armor clanking, the heavy footfalls echoing like doom incarnate.
Dream stands his ground, refusing to back up. He lifts his chin proudly and stares the other man down; Sam may have the density of a Creeper’s physique, not to mention muscle and width on Dream, but Dream has the height advantage, and he will use it for everything it’s worth.
“It must burn you to have to waste your life away guarding me,” he says calmly. “Me, a man you hate so much. Doesn't that make you angry?”
“I don’t hate you, Dream,” Sam responds, low and dangerous. “You’ve given me a purpose. I’m actually very grateful to you for that.”
“You’ve got a weird way of showing it,” Dream growls, letting his anger out. Anger is okay; anger is strength. Sam’s all the way up in Dream’s space now, and Dream won’t back down. If Sam wants to hurt him, there’s not much Dream can do to stop it, but at least his dignity will be intact.
An armored hand shoots out and Dream slams back against the wall. He groans, gasping for breath as warm metal clenches around his neck. Sam chuckles.
“You misunderstand,” he says, hot breath filtering through his mask onto Dream’s lips, close enough for Dream to see the perverse glee in the man’s eyes. “My purpose is to keep you under control.”
“Fair enough,” Dream rasps out. “You’re doing a great job there.” And he means it; every second he’s in here is a breath taken under Sam’s thumb. It’s crushing, terrifying, and Dream couldn’t have imagined a worse fate for himself; unable to fill his lungs without feeling like a weight is pulling him into deeper into dark waters.
Sam spins him around and cracks his head against the wall. Lightning-sharp pain lances through Dream’s body and he blinks dizzily, trying to push through the flashing lights in his eyes and get his guard back up.
“I should be doing a better job,” Sam says casually. “I should break you so thoroughly you’ll never even think about hurting anyone again, and I haven’t. But I’m gonna fix that now, because it’s the right thing to do.”
Dream feels his entire body seize up in a wave of panic. Sam will do it, Sam can do it, and it’s only his lack of imagination that’s been saving Dream so far. He hears his breath come out in short, sharp pants.
“Do... do your worst,” he manages to choke out.
“Oh, I will,” Sam breathes, “but you’ll still be alive afterwards, and that’ll be the worst part of it all.” He chuckles and a knife ghosts over the shell of Dream’s ear. Sam’s other hand is still crushing Dream’s face into the wall, eerily warm metal and smooth, unyielding obsidian pressing against his cheeks and making his bones bend and ache. Dream’s knees buckle. He furiously tries to straighten them, but Sam has only been feeding him once a day lately, and it’s not enough; Dream just doesn’t have the strength he once had.
The knife trails down past Dream’s ear and over the tendons in his neck. He sags in Sam’s arms.
“Good boy.” Sam grins and bites him where the knife was a few seconds ago, drawing blood. Dream gasps and a hot tide of rage rushes through him.
He throws Sam off, finding a last reserve he didn’t know he had.
“Fuck you,” he growls, “fuck you. You’re every bit as horrible as I ever was, but you’ve convinced yourself you’re a good person, and that makes you so much worse.”
Sam punches him square in the stomach.
Dream flies back into the wall and drops limply to the floor. Somewhere, distantly, he hears someone sobbing for breath. His ears ring and he retches, gasping. He realizes with horror that the sobs are coming from himself and he grits his teeth, but Sam’s metal fingers are already pushing their way into his mouth.
He gags, disgusted by the taste, but Sam is relentless. Dream struggles for air, throat working desperately around the intrusion.
“Shut up, you animal, shut up,” Sam rages, hooking his fingers behind Dream’s teeth. “After everything you’ve done, how can you act like you have a right to judge anyone?” Dream feels his head get yanked up and then smashed into the floor.
His vision goes white for a few seconds, and when it comes back, the nausea hits him like a truck. Sam’s still yelling somewhere above him, but the words scramble themselves around in his brain. The warden’s fingers shove deep into his mouth again and Dream’s entire existence contracts to that pressure in the back of his throat.
He vomits all over Sam’s hand.
Sam yanks his fingers out and slaps him across the face without pausing. The heavy metal splits open the skin of his cheek and blood starts pouring out of his nose, mixing with the vomit dribbling down his chin.
“You’re disgusting,” Sam says, almost in wonder.
Dream lets out a ragged whine.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Sam asks, spreading false sweetness thickly into his voice. His fingers trail down Dream’s heaving chest before pressing on his bruised stomach.
Dream coughs, choking on the acid in his throat. He has to say something, he know he does; he can’t let Sam think he’s won already, but the words swirl around in his brain and stick uselessly in his throat. His body is betraying him. Another whine rips its way out, and Dream is filled with helpless rage.
There are no more secret reserves of strength left.
Sam chuckles and pats the bruise with a heavy hand. “Good boy.”
The hand travels lower, and Dream suddenly realizes what Sam came here to do. He screams helplessly, and the words finally come back.
“No,” he gasps, “please, no, don’t do this, please. I- I'll do anything, just please don’t do this to me.”
Sam ignores him, briefly fondling his crotch before grabbing his ragged pants in two armored hands and ripping them in half.
Dream lets out a cry, eyes filling with tears. He never thought Sam would do something like this, it never even occurred to him; the warden was always so cold and righteous, and this... this is dirty and sweaty and horribly, horribly intimate. It can’t be real. This is not reality. Dream squeezes his eyes shut, tears pouring down the sides of his head.
Just a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare, you’ll wake up eventually and everything will be okay. You just have to hang on until then. It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real.
Sam’s smooth finger rubs across his hole in a parody of gentleness.
“Good boy,” he says, and Dream can hear the smirk in his voice, no matter how hard he tries to block the man out. “We need to loosen you up. Don’t want to break you, do we?” He pats Dream’s stomach again. The pain flashes through him in a dull ache and he tries to take a deep breath.
It’ll be over soon. It’s not real.
Something solid pushes at Dream’s rim and he gasps.
“You know what that is?” Sam asks. Dream shakes his head desperately. He knows what it is. Sam laughs, and it almost sounds kind. He’s pretending to be benevolent now that he’s got his way, and Dream hates it; he almost liked the roughness more. At least that was honest.
“You know what it is,” Sam continues fondly, echoing Dream’s terrified thoughts. “It’s my favorite knife. Not the sharp end, don’t worry; you’re not gonna bleed out on my watch.”
As if that makes it better.
The hilt pushes in, slow and dry. Dream howls, beating his fists against the floor, but that only adds more pain, and Sam doesn’t stop. Dream’s hole stretches around it, because Sam is an unstoppable force, and he’s gripping Dream’s hips so hard that Dream can feel his bones bruising, so Dream is an immovable object, and something has to give. It doesn’t give easily, or happily, but it does give, even as the agony only increases.
Sam buries it in up to the cross guard, and then sits back, admiring his handiwork. Dream’s eyes are crusted with mucus and salt and blood from a cut on his head, but they’ve opened, against his will, and they reluctantly slide down to look at it as well.
The blade juts out of his ass like a strange, alien infection, grafted onto his body where it doesn’t belong. The wrongness of it is enough to bring Dream’s nausea roaring back in full force. He retches weakly, drool and bile spilling down his chin.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Sam sighs, reaching forward to wipe it off with a metal thumb. Dream sobs helplessly. He can see the excitement in Sam’s eyes; the joy at finally having the most evil man in the world broken and suffering at his hands, but the knife in his ass is still pure agony, and he just wants the pain to go away.
“You took that so well,” Sam says. “I’ll make the next part easier, as a reward.”
He rips the dagger out and tosses it, catching it by the hilt and stowing it safely in his belt. Dream convulses with a scream. Sam winks at him and puts a finger to his lips.
“Shush, this is the best part.” A couple spurts of blood dribble out of Dream’s gaping hole.
Sam takes his thumb that is dripping with Dream’s saliva and vomit and pushes it in.
Dream groans. The acid of the vomit burns where it touches the tears in his anal walls, but the smoothness of Sam’s finger with the makeshift lubricant feels like heaven in comparison to the dry knife hilt.
He sobs softly, arching off the ground when Sam bends the thumb right into his prostate.
It doesn’t feel good. It feels overwhelming, like a lightning strike, melting and electrifying his bones. Sam laughs darkly and pulls out, scooping more vomit onto his fingers. Index finger now, and Dream hears a clatter.
Sam has pulled off a piece of his armor, and his hard cock is exposed to the air. Dream whimpers in terror. It’s huge, much bigger than the hilt, but Sam only laughs and gives it a stroke with his free hand, nonchalantly stabbing his finger into Dream’s prostate again.
It doesn’t take long for Dream to cum. Over sensitized as he already is, the direct stimulation to his prostate makes it humiliatingly easy.
He cries into the crook of his elbow as he orgasms. He’s never been softer or less aroused than he is now, but the cum dribbles out of his cock in weak spurts anyway, and Dream couldn’t stop it any more than he can stop Sam from violating his body.
Sam coos proudly and pulls his fingers out. Dream’s hole is numb, the only thing he can feel anymore is the emptiness now that it’s no longer filled. But then Sam puts a heavy hand on his cock and he screams, helpless horror washing through him.
“Ah, you get it now,” Sam says cruelly, stroking it with an armored hand, and Dream does. Oh, he does.
Of course Sam would make him cum before he fucks him for real; it’s the only way he could make it hurt any more than it already would.
Pins and needles flash through him, followed by waves of ice cold and flashes of fire. Sam pumps his spent cock ruthlessly.
“As if I’d ever show any kindness to you,” he growls. “You sicken me. The only reason you’re still alive is so that I can make you suffer more. Death is too easy for you.”
He shoves his entire cock inside Dream, all at once. Dream feels every inch of pain as his skin tears trying to accommodate it, and then something deeply wrong happens inside the muscles of his hole. Dream’s vision flashes white.
When he comes back to consciousness, Sam is gripping his chin in one hand and yanking his hair with the other as he pounds into Dream like he’s nothing more than a toy. Dream can’t really feel anything below his waist, but when he tries to push back the numbness, a sickening sense of what the pain would feel like nudges at the corners of his mind and he recoils.
It would kill him.
It still could. Sam could kill him without even trying.
Dream whimpers and goes limp in Sam’s hands. There’s nothing else to do.
Sometime while he was unconscious, Sam threw away his mask, and now his sharp teeth dig into the meat of Dream’s neck. He doesn’t rip away the flesh when he lets go, because they both know that that would kill Dream, but they just sink into his shoulder instead. Dream feels his vision going black again.
Sam throws Dream down onto the floor and with a growl, shoves even deeper inside him. Dream wails, but Sam doesn’t pull out. He growls again and Dream realizes in disgust that he’s cumming.
He feels Sam’s cock pump and fill his intestines with his seed. Endless spurts of it, warm and thick and wrong, and Sam stabs his knife into Dream's shoulder with an animal yell.
Dream's vision goes black and he knows at that moment that he will never feel clean again.
After an eternity, Sam pulls the knife out. Dream howls, sobbing loudly, but Sam only runs the tip gently down his body while pulling his cock out.
Dream can’t look down. He doesn’t want to see what Sam has done to him. He doesn’t want to see the ruined wreck of his hole; the blood and the rips and whatever else has happened.
He feels a gentle push, and realizes miserably that it’s the knife hilt plugging him up again. It doesn’t even burn anymore; Dream can only feel it if he clenches down on purpose, and he comes sickeningly close to actually feeling the damage that Sam has wreaked on his body if he does that, so he doesn’t.
He lets his head fall back to the floor and closes his eyes wearily, letting the tears fall.
It’s over. Thank god for small mercies.
He can hear Sam above him putting all his armor back on and retrieving the mask from where he threw it aside, but he doesn’t respond when Sam kicks him lazily, and he only flinches a little when the warden spits on his face.
“You’re pathetic,” Sam says, but even he sounds a little shocked by Dream’s state. It doesn’t matter, the damage has already been done.
Sam wrenches the door open and takes a deep breath.
“Hey, Quackity,” he calls, “I’ve loosened him up a bit for you, wanna take a look?”
Dream’s entire body freezes in sheer animal terror. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to raise himself on shaking arms to run, but they won’t hold him. His wounded shoulder spasms and he collapses.
He tries again, and a boot on the back of his neck forces him down.
“Yo, Dream,” a familiar voice says. “Good to see you again.”
Quackity crouches in front of his face and tilts Dream’s head up. He grins; a knife slash, dripping blood.
“We’re going to have so much fun together.”