Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The door to Pandora’s Vault groaned as it opened, the sound reverberating like a scream across the empty sea. Sapnap stood still, his heart pounding, George’s hand cold in his own. They had imagined this day for years, clung to it as hope dreamed about Dream stepping through that door with his old smile, his laugh, his stubborn spark.

But the man who emerged was not the Dream they remembered.

He came forward slowly, hunched and gaunt, every movement deliberate, restrained. A broken chain still dangled from the collar around his throat. His wrists bore rings of scar tissue so deep they looked branded. His eyes the brightest green eyes either of them had ever known were dull now, glazed over like glass left in the rain.

Sapnap swore under his breath, but Dream flinched instantly at the sound, head snapping up, lips parted like he was waiting for the next command.

George’s stomach twisted. “Dream,” he whispered, his voice cracking despite himself.

The reaction was immediate. Dream straightened at the sound of his name, his hands flattening at his sides, his body trembling but still. His gaze fixed on George, wide, eager, empty all at once. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He simply waited.

“Oh my God,” Sapnap murmured, horrified.

George’s throat closed as he stepped forward, every instinct screaming to run to him, to pull him into his arms, to hold him until the world made sense again. But when he reached out, Dream didn’t lean forward or retreat he froze, like a dog trained too harshly, terrified of doing the wrong thing.

“You’re free,” George whispered, tears burning in his eyes. “It’s over. You can come home now.”

Dream blinked, confusion flickering faintly across his face before it smoothed back into blankness. He gave the faintest nod, mechanical, obedient, and followed when George took his hand. His grip wasn’t real—there was no squeeze back, no warmth. Just compliance.

When they brought him home, he didn’t look around, didn’t marvel at the house he had built with them years ago, didn’t comment on the changes. He stopped in the doorway and stood there, waiting. His eyes moved to the couch, then the floor, then back to George, silently asking which one was correct.

“Sit,” George said automatically, trying to sound gentle.

Dream obeyed immediately, lowering himself onto the couch with perfect posture, hands folded on his knees, eyes forward. His every motion was quiet precision, rehearsed obedience.

Sapnap cursed and ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to scream, wanted to find Sam and Quackity and tear them apart limb by limb but when he looked at Dream, sitting so still and silent, his rage was drowned out by grief.

Later, when Sapnap brought food, Dream didn’t move until Sapnap said softly, “Eat.” Only then did he pick up the spoon and start to eat in small, neat bites, careful, silent. He didn’t react to the taste, didn’t pause to breathe, didn’t smile when Sapnap tried to joke. He only stopped when the bowl was empty and his eyes flicked back up, waiting for acknowledgment.

Nights were worse.

Dream didn’t crawl into bed with them like he used to, wrapping himself around them, joking and laughing until they all fell asleep tangled together. Instead, he stood at the edge of the mattress, waiting for direction.

“Get in,” George begged one night, voice trembling. “Please, Dream. You don’t need to ask.”

Dream tilted his head, uncertain, then climbed in stiffly, laying down at the very edge with his hands folded over his stomach. He lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. Sapnap reached for him, desperate, pulling him close, but Dream went rigid in his arms, his breath quickening with panic not fear of Sapnap, but fear of disobeying some unseen rule.

Sapnap broke then, burying his face against Dream’s hair, whispering through sobs. “It’s us. It’s just us. What did they do to you?”

George curled around his other side, clutching his hand. “We love you,” he whispered desperately. “You’re not a pet, Dream. You’re not an object. You’re ours. Always ours.”

Dream didn’t move. Didn’t respond. His eyes stayed wide, glassy, staring into the dark until morning.

Word spread quickly, and when Puffy saw him,thin, silent, obedient, her hands shook so violently she nearly dropped her sword. “They treated him like a dog,” she whispered, horror in her voice. “They treated him like an animal.” Tears welled in her eyes as she crouched in front of him. “Sweetheart… it’s me. Puffy. Do you know me?”

Dream blinked slowly, head dipping slightly, polite acknowledgement. Nothing more.

Puffy stood, her voice breaking with rage. “I’ll kill them.”

And she wasn’t alone. Techno’s fury was quiet, colder than ice. “Sam dies for this,” he said, and days later, he made good on it.Sam’s lives cut down to none. Quackity barely escaped with one.

Philza’s grief came in storms of shouting, smashing chairs and swearing into the night. Tommy came trembling, eyes darting nervously to Dream as he sat on the floor, folding a blanket again and again. “I thought I wanted him to pay,” Tommy whispered, voice cracking. “But not this. No one deserves this.”

And Wilbur,wilbur burned with wrath. He had been revived by Dream’s hand, given life again by him. To see his savior reduced to this, sitting silent on the floor like a trained pet, broke him. “He brought me back,” Wilbur hissed, pacing with wild eyes. “He brought me back, and they broke him? I’ll tear their empire down to the last block. They’ll never breathe easy again.”

But none of it mattered. Not Techno’s vengeance. Not Puffy’s tears. Not Wilbur’s fury. None of it fixed Dream.

Every night he still knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed, whispering softly to himself: “Waiting for orders.”

George’s heart shattered each time. He would crawl down to the floor, clutching Dream’s face in his hands, whispering, “There are no orders. You’re free. You’re free, Dream.”

And every time, Dream would look back at him with those empty green eyes and whisper hoarsely, “I don’t understand.”

Sapnap would stand behind them, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face, hating himself for not saving him sooner.

They didn’t know if he would ever understand.

But they refused to leave.

If this was all that was left of Dream this broken, obedient shell of a man.they would stay anyway. They would hold him, feed him, whisper love into ears that no longer recognized it, until maybe, one day, something reached him again.

And if it never did, if Dream stayed forever shattered—then they would stay shattered with him.

Because he was theirs. Always theirs.

Even if all that remained was a crown of broken glass.

Dream’s second week home passed in silence. He still hadn’t spoken except in short, hoarse answers to direct questions "yes,” “no,” “sorry.” His voice broke every time, so faint it was almost a whisper. He never volunteered words on his own.

George and Sapnap tried to fill the silence with conversation, but it always fell flat. Dream didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He only watched with wide, obedient eyes, waiting to be included, waiting for orders.

The third week, the truth of what had been done to him began to reveal itself in sharp, unbearable pieces.

It started at night. George woke to the sound of movement and found the bed empty beside him. His heart clenched instantly Dream wasn’t there. He scrambled up, panic clawing his throat, until he saw him.

Dream was kneeling by the corner of the room, hands folded neatly in his lap, head bowed.

“Dream?” George whispered.

Dream didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

George came closer, crouching. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?”

Slowly, Dream lifted his head, glassy green eyes catching the dim light. “Permission to sleep,” he whispered hoarsely.

George’s chest cracked open. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “You don’t need permission,” he choked out. “You never need permission for that.”

But Dream didn’t move until George touched his arm and whispered again, “Yes. Permission granted.”

Only then did Dream crawl back into bed, curling silently at the far edge, lying stiff until exhaustion dragged him under.

The next morning, Sapnap found him standing in the kitchen, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot. He wasn’t eating, wasn’t drinking. Just standing, waiting.

“Dream?” Sapnap asked cautiously. “What are you doing?”

Dream’s lips parted like he’d been caught doing something wrong. He glanced at the floor. “Permission to use the bathroom?”

The words nearly killed Sapnap. His hands trembled as he stepped closer, forcing his voice steady. “You don’t fuck, you don’t need to ask me that. You never need to ask me that. You just go, okay? You just go.”

Dream’s shoulders hunched as if Sapnap’s voice had been too sharp. He whispered, “Sorry,” and hurried down the hall.

Sapnap leaned against the counter, hands covering his face, shaking so hard he could barely breathe.

By the end of the week, they realized the pattern. Dream asked permission for everything.

“Permission to speak.”

“Permission to sit.”

“Permission to eat.”

If they didn’t answer, he stayed silent, stayed still, stayed hungry. He didn’t complain, didn’t pout, didn’t look confused. He simply waited, patient and loyal, like a dog who had been trained too thoroughly to break his rules.

George once caught him standing in the rain outside the house, dripping wet, staring at the door but not coming in.

“Dream, what are you doing?” George cried, rushing to him.

Dream’s teeth chattered as he whispered, “Permission to enter.”

George sobbed as he dragged him inside, clutching him close. Dream stood stiff in his arms, not fighting, not relaxing, just enduring.

At night, Sapnap curled around him, holding him tightly even when Dream went rigid, whispering into his hair, “You’re not a fucking pet. You’re not. You’re Dream. Our Dream. Do you hear me?”

Sometimes Dream nodded. Sometimes he whispered, “Yes, sir.”

The words broke Sapnap every time.

One evening, George tried something new. He sat with Dream on the couch, pulling him gently into his lap despite the way Dream tensed at first. He stroked his hair, soft and careful.

“You don’t need to ask anymore,” George whispered. “Not me. Not Sapnap. Not ever. You can do whatever you want. You’re free.”

Dream blinked up at him slowly, confusion flickering faintly before it dulled again. “Don’t understand,” he whispered.

George’s throat closed. He pressed a kiss to Dream’s temple, tears burning his eyes. “That’s okay,” he whispered back. “Then we’ll understand for you. We’ll keep saying it until maybe one day it makes sense again.”

But Dream didn’t reply. He only rested his head lightly against George’s chest, not out of comfort, but out of obedience, because that was what was wanted of him.

Every little thing revealed another scar.

When Sapnap raised his voice one day in frustration—not at Dream, never at Dream, but at himself, at the situation—Dream dropped to his knees instantly, hands behind his back, eyes downcast. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry, please, sorry.”

Sapnap froze, horror flooding him. He fell to the floor immediately, grabbing Dream’s shoulders. “No, no, don’t do that ,fuck, Dream, I wasn’t yelling at you.” His voice cracked as he shook his head violently. “I would never yell at you. Not you. Not ever again.”

Dream blinked at him, confused but silent, posture still rigid.

Sapnap buried his face against him, sobbing into his chest. George found them like that, both on the floor, Sapnap clinging to him like he’d drown without him, Dream just sitting still, waiting.

They tried to re-teach him choice, but it didn’t stick.

“Dream, what do you want for dinner?” George asked one night, desperate to hear him choose.

Dream tilted his head slightly, eyes blank. “What do you want me to want?”

George’s hands trembled as he dropped his gaze. “Fuck,” he whispered, broken.

The two of them spent hours whispering to him in bed at night, telling him he was loved, telling him he was theirs, telling him he was human. Sometimes Dream lay still, silent. Sometimes he whispered, “Yes, sir.” Sometimes he whispered, “Sorry.”

Never anything more.

But they didn’t stop.

They never stopped.

Because even if Dream never understood, even if he spent the rest of his life asking permission to breathe, George and Sapnap would stay with him. They would grant him permission a thousand times a day, forever, if that’s what it took.

They couldn’t undo five years of chains. They couldn’t erase the collar scarred into his neck. They couldn’t give him back the spark in his eyes.

Chapter Text

happy birthday to Wilbur.

I know a lot of people might not agree with me or might even hate me for saying this, but I want to be honest. If Wilbur really did hurt Shubble, I don’t support that at all. That kind of behavior is never okay. But ,People make mistakes, and everyone deserves a second chance especially someone who’s been struggling so much with their mental health.

I honestly believe in Wilbur. When you look at the past, you can see how much he was hurting,how he had so many bruises when they were dating, or how he would always lean away from Shubble in photos, like he was uncomfortable or trying to protect himself. That doesn’t excuse mistakes, but it shows he’s been carrying a lot of pain a.

Seeing him go to therapy, trying to take care of himself, and making music with Lovejoy makes me really happy. It feels like he’s finally doing better, even if the road isn’t perfect. I’ve also noticed how thin he became, and it just makes me hope he’s getting the care and support he needs.Did you see how thin he was?he look so dead and distant i believed he had eating disorder but is recovering

So yeah, I won’t support bad actions, and I’ll never ignore if someone was hurt. But I can still care about Wilbur as a person, and I hope he continues to heal and find peace. Everyone deserves love, understanding, and a chance to grow, and I really hope he gets that.

Happy birthday, Wilbur. I hope this year is full of better days, happiness, and everything you’ve been working so hard to find.

I'll be updating part 2 soon

Chapter Text

The house felt thick with tension, heavy and suffocating, each breath a weight. Sapnap’s voice cracked the silence like glass shattering.

“I can’t do this, George! I can’t just sit here and watch him shrink every day and pretend it’s enough! I can’t pretend he’s fine when he’s like this!”

George froze, hands gripping the counter, chest tight. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Every single day I wake up wondering if he’ll eat unless I tell him he can! Don’t tell me I’m not trying, Sapnap!”

The argument escalated, voices sharp, raw, cutting across the room like knives. Dream stood in the hallway, small and still, every muscle taut, hands clenched, absorbing the storm. He didn’t understand the words. He only understood the tone, the anger, the fear, and the danger pressing down on him. 'Someone is angry. I must do something. I must obey. I must fix it'

Sapnap slammed his fists down on the counter. “I need air! I need to get out of here!”

The front door slammed, echoing like thunder through the hall, leaving Dream alone with George. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He dropped to his knees, crawling slowly toward George, hands trembling as they brushed against George’s pants.

'I am doing it right. I am obeying. I am pleasing my owners'

And then the memory came, unbidden and sharp, dragging him into the depths of the Pandora Vault, where Quackity’s face had loomed over him.

It had been night. The Vault was cold, damp, echoing with the drip of water and the distant clatter of metal. Quackity had held the axe in his hands, eyes cold and gleaming. Dream had been frozen, chest tight, breath catching, the first strike landing mere inches from his hand, sending shock through him.

“Do you understand obedience?” Quackity had asked, low, cruel.

Dream had nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

Another strike grazed the floor beside him, vibrating through his knees. Hours passed in kneeling, crawling, shivering under strict commands. Every hesitation was punished with the cold back of the axe or the whip of his hand, leaving marks that burned.

And then the test of humiliation—the bladder pressing painfully, urgency unbearable. Dream had looked up, trembling, voice barely audible: “Permission… sir… to… pee?”

Quackity had laughed, cruel and echoing. “Of course. But you will do it like a dog. Low. Obedient. Humble. Show me you know your place.”

Dream had lowered himself, stomach churning with shame, trembling with fear. Every nerve screamed, but survival demanded obedience. He had done exactly as he was told.

And then came the final command:

“Lick it. Clean it. Prove that you belong. Prove that you know your place.”

Dream had obeyed. His stomach had burned, shame had clawed at his chest, and every part of him had wanted to vanish. But he had survived. And in the twisted, broken logic of his fear, a tiny, perverse pride had flared. He had pleased his “owner.” He had obeyed. He had survived.

Now, back in the living room, kneeling before George, Dream’s body felt the same reflex, the same pride and fear twisting cold and sharp inside him.

"I am doing it right. I am obeying. I am pleasing my owners."

George froze, horror twisting his face. “Dream! No! Stop! Don’t ,please!” His hands reached out, shaking. Dream’s body was rigid, unflinching. In his mind, he had done exactly what was expected.

“Stop!” George’s voice cracked, tears brimming. “You don’t have to do this! Not for me! Not ever!”

Then the front door burst open.

Sapnap’s eyes, wide with fury and disbelief, froze on the scene. Dream, kneeling, hands at George’s waistband.

Everything narrowed. In Sapnap’s mind, only one thought existed: George was hurting Dream.

“George—what the fuck?!”

Before anyone could react, Sapnap’s fist connected with George’s jaw. The force sent him stumbling back with a strangled cry.

Dream froze. Heart hammering, mind fracturing. Panic collided with pride. ' I… I did it right… didn’t I? I obeyed… I served… I pleased my owners… why is he angry?'

George fell to his knees, clutching his face, blood running through his fingers. 'Sapnap… wait… it’s not like that'

Dream’s chest tightened, confusion spiraling with the cold, twisted pride he had learned to cling to. He had followed the rules. He had done everything right. Why was Sapnap so angry?

'I… I am supposed to please them. I served. I obeyed. I did it right'

Panic began creeping in, small at first, then flaring violently. His hands shook uncontrollably. Breaths hitched in short, jagged gasps. The old memories clawed back—the axe strike, the cruel laughter, the punishments, every lesson screamed obedience.

'I am doing it right. I am making my owners proud. Why… why'

Tears spilled down his face. Chest heaving. Knees trembling. His mind looped, fracturing into endless repetition: 'I did it right… I followed the rules… I pleased my owners… why are they so angry'

The panic escalated. Vision tunneled. The air pressed down like stone. Heart pounding in jagged, frantic rhythms. The world collapsed around him.

George’s sobs, Sapnap’s fury , all fused into a storm Dream could not comprehend.

He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not process.

All he could do was spiral, full-blown panic consuming every part of him.

Chapter Text

I was being stupid and decided to re--read flowers from 1970 and it still fucking hurts 🤧🤧🤧 I might kill off one my other characters in my other stories to mourn after re-opening the wound

Kids these days will never understand how much i cried over that years ago

I just had to post this because i can't let flowers from 1970 be forgotten

Cry with me

Chapter Text

The air in the house had become something almost tangible, thick and heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t winter cold, not exactly, but something older, older than seasons. A cold that seeped into your bones and made you doubt that warmth could ever return.

Sapnap had been gone more than he’d been home. Ever since the fight, ever since the first time his hand had connected with George’s face and left that sting of guilt and rage behind, he’d been restless, wandering the server, hunting at odd hours, disappearing for days without explanation. George didn’t understand, didn’t want to, but it left him alone. Always alone.

He had started counting the absences like small little punishments, the days blurring into one another, each one heavier than the last. Dream sat quietly, obedient and still, on the couch. Not talking, not moving too much, just sitting there like a shadow of the man George remembered, a perfect reflection of a broken silence. And George’s mind, left to its own devices, started to turn sharp edges inward.

It was during one of those long, empty days, when Sapnap was out again and the house smelled faintly of dust and regret, that Puffy arrived. She needed help. The Egg, she said, was spreading, bleeding its red vines across the land, whispering strange and insidious things to anyone who got too close.

George didn’t hesitate. Any excuse to step outside the cold walls, to feel his hands move on something, to grasp at normal anger instead of the all-consuming grief he carried for Dream… he took it. He left a hurried note for Sapnap, something short, almost casual, promising to be back before nightfall. And then he was gone.

The house was empty.

And Quackity had been waiting.

He didn’t stalk. He didn’t have to. He knew the rhythms of the house, the quiet predictable steps of two people trying to hold on to what they couldn’t fix. He knew when George would leave. He knew when Sapnap would vanish. And most importantly, he knew where Dream would be, and how pliable the man had become.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. The door was unlocked, waiting, and he walked in like the place was already his, which, in a twisted sense, it was. He had shaped this puppet once before. He could do it again.

Dream was standing by the window, hands folded, knees stiff, posture unnaturally straight. He didn’t flinch when Quackity entered. He didn’t panic. He had been trained to obey, trained to move like a creature with no choice. His mind registered the presence, cataloged it, and he waited for the command that would never be gentle.

“Come,” Quackity said.

Dream’s knees bent before he even processed the words. The training in the Pandora Vault, the cold stone, the hours of commands, the axe, the punishment, the shame — all of it flooded back in a sharp, precise wave. Obedience was a reflex now, stronger than thought, stronger than fear.

He obeyed.

Quackity guided him through the house, past the empty bedroom, past the silent kitchen, into the woods beyond. The cabin he had prepared was small, isolated, and deliberately unwelcoming. Inside, the air smelled of wood and damp earth, and the walls carried the faint echo of commands spoken before.

The first thing he did was fit Dream with the tools of his new existence. A thick leather collar snapped around his neck, pressing lightly against the scar tissue that never fully healed. Then a muzzle, biting straps that sealed away his voice, silencing the words he could no longer trust to exist. Finally, a leash, heavy, looped around Quackity’s wrist, connecting Dream to someone else’s will in a way that felt both terrifying and oddly comforting.

“Good boy,” Quackity whispered.

Dream endured it all without a word. His body was rigid, his mind coiled, but he felt the old, familiar relief of clarity: obey, survive, move. Nothing else mattered.

Quackity pushed a dog bowl of thick gruel across the floor. The motion was deliberate, precise. Dream didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head, hands behind his back, knees bent, and licked at the food with the awkwardness of someone learning to exist in a body that belonged to someone else. Every scrape of the bowl against his lips, every hesitation from the muzzle, reminded him of the Vault, reminded him of punishment, reminded him that obedience was his only refuge.

“Sit.”

Dream obeyed instantly, the muscles of his legs shifting, his body folding without thought. The word carried weight, but he had learned to carry weight without resistance.

“Stand.”

He rose, stiff, careful, measuring each movement.

“Eat.”

He leaned forward again to finish what was left, scraping the edges, following every motion perfectly.

“Come.”

Dream moved on his knees, chain taut but controlled, every motion deliberate, trained, perfect.

“Go.”

He moved into the corner of the cabin, kneeling, waiting for the next instruction.

“Roll over.”

He hesitated only for a fraction of a second, enough for the memory of the Vault, the cold stone floor, and the axe to flash through his mind. And then he rolled, slowly, clumsily, but perfectly obedient, ending back on his knees, head low.

Quackity laughed. A sharp, triumphant, cruel sound that seemed to echo in every corner, every shadow. “Perfect,” he whispered. “You finally understand. You are the puppet. My broken, perfect puppet.”

And Dream, chained to the leash, followed him wherever he went. Obedience was the only language he remembered. Survival, the only truth he had left.

Outside, the world carried on. George was deep in the forest with Puffy, chasing, scraping, trying to stop the Egg’s corruption. Sapnap wandered, hunting, distracted, restless. Both were gone, and the silence of their absence was exact, absolute. Quackity had found his perfect moment.

Sapnap returned later, empty house greeting him like a physical blow. George’s note fluttered uselessly on the table. He ran, he searched, he screamed. His axe was useless in the quiet, in the woods, where Dream’s chains jingled softly under Quackity’s control.

Dream’s mind, meanwhile, drifted in the small, tight cage of the cabin, moving between past and present. He remembered George’s laughter, Sapnap’s anger, the fleeting warmth of being known, being loved. And then he remembered obedience, the cold stone, the axe, the punishment, the rewards of following commands perfectly.

It didn’t feel like shame anymore. It felt like clarity.

Sit. Stand. Eat. Come. Go. Roll over.

Each command was a pulse, a rhythm, a tether. And Dream, trained beyond memory, obeyed, because it was the only way he could survive.

Hours blurred into days. Commands repeated, routines cemented. Quackity watched, silent, patient. Dream existed only in motion, only in reaction, only in the space between leash and collar, muzzle and bowl.

And in the quietest moments, when Quackity was elsewhere, Dream thought, vaguely, of freedom, of warmth, of George and Sapnap, of a life that might have been. And then the leash tugged, and he obeyed.

Because survival was obedience. And obedience was all he had left.