#i need to bite him. gnaw him. bite and flail him around like a rabid dog. the same thing cerberus did to him during anni1

[aria0fgold]

I'm getting mahoyaku brainrot... Thinking about Cain as a villain is doing things to my brain in ways I don't know how to express other than "evil cain hot"

[dreamsclock]

🏔

i am getting abstract. a mountain is outside. in this fic, c!dream is buried outside . this is the link i am makign .

warnings: major character death (temporary, but doesn't come back in this snippet), abuse, torture, mental instability, alcohol, blood, injury, typical c!prisontrio themes

Sam has never buried a dead body before.

He imagines the process to be less stressful than this; easier, in the way that this particular burial is not. Dream’s body twitches and struggles to flail, sluggish as the hole in his head seeps sticky blood, but his pulse is rabid against Sam’s oily fingertips.

He’s still not sure why he’s burying Dream. Why he doesn’t keep him in the prison, where Sam wants (no, needs) him. Later, he’ll blame panic and stress. Later, Ponk will look him in the eyes and tell him that guilt and fear can drive even the most rational man to the most illogical decisions. At the moment of burial, it just feels like a compulsion. Sam’s hands mottled with dirt and blood and stone, push Dream underground, cover him with rocks and mud until his struggles begin to abate. Dream moans out, an incoherent plea for mercy that Sam doesn’t know or recognise. It’s a compulsion, burying Dream, a force pushing him to pule dirt until his prisoner is silent and the Warden is panting, chest heaving for breath.

Had Dream forced him to do that? is the thought that ripples through his head, quicksand thoughts making his heart race in fear. Is Dream to blame for the compulsive dig-dig-digging that had led them both here, Dream trying to control his actions one last time?

Because his head is clearer now, now that his prisoner is partially buried and mostly still. The feverish need to drag and bury and hide is gone, leaving him to continue with heavy shoulders and a sense of finality. Everything is over now. When Dream is six, twelve, twenty feet underground, and Sam has covered the hole with enough dirt to crush anything underneath, everything is over.

He does not feel sorry for the creature in the dirt shaped like a boy he had once known.

He does not feel sorry for the prisoner.

...

When he gets back to Las Nevadas, Quackity is there. He cradles a glass of amber liquid like it’s all he has left, red scar flickering and warping in the dim lighting of the casino, and slides a second glass to Sam wordlessly. Sam accepts. He doesn’t drink. Hasn’t ever drunk, until he finds himself raising the glass to his lips and swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. The alcohol burns. It’s too coppery for his liking. He doesn’t like the smell of it on his breath. It reminds him of his own flesh, of biting and chewing and gnawing at his skin trapped beside the Egg while it had scuttled around inside his mind.

“Finished?” Quackity asks. His low voice breaks Sam’s reverie.

He’s damp from perspiration and wet from the trickling, oozing rain. Something hot and panicked and relieved stings his eyes. He pays it no mind.

“Yes,” Sam says, “we’re finished.”