Chapter Text
Nightmare awakens, finding himself still blindfolded, gagged, and chained. This time his arms are bound in front of him, tucked close to his lowermost ribs by (what he thinks, by the give and cushion, is) padded leather. The heavy iron clasps still weigh him down and make his magic weak. A little squirming shows that his legs are free.
He pulls one leg up, bracing his heel closer to his body with his knee up and bent. The other he stretches, rolling his ankle. The range of motion feels good to take advantage of, even though he still feels wrung out and exhausted. Worse, his wings are exposed, stretched out flat under him.
"Ah, you're awake," Says that voice, the one that's been haunting Nightmare since he was sold. "Hold still, now..."
Hands take hold of Nightmare's face, and unclasp the gag to pull it away. Nightmare coughs, gasping and panting for air out of reflex more than any sense of being choked. He works his jaw, easing the soreness in the hinge with some gentle stretching.
"...Not a siren, then," The voice muses aloud. "Nor anything that uses direct verbal components to manifest change. Good, good, how convenient."
Nightmare growls. "release me."
"Manners. Ask politely, and I might consider undoing some of these clasps," The voice says.
Nightmare grits his teeth shut. He isn't at the point in his desperation that he even wants to consider owning this fucker a favor. Favors should be reserved for his things, not bastards who bought him at an auction.
Nightmare is not going to give that pathetic part of him (that wags its tail at the idea of being wanted so much he was worth money) any attention. That is not the complement that that part of him thinks it is, and he isn't going to give it any credence. He doesn't care how much he was weighed to be worth (except that he cares a lot), and he is not going to dwell on the fact that he's being kept because he is wanted (because he isn't wanted for himself).
"...No? Well, that's fine. You can stay like this a little longer." The bastard pulls away, and the next thing Nightmare knows is the cool touch of a cloth wiping at his face. The cloth is scented in sweet honey and medicinal herbs, scents that make his head swim and his headache fade behind foggy static. It wipes away the ichor his scars never stop weeping, cleaning him of the cloying film he's grown used to, leaving those scents behind.
The cloth pulls away just as its scent is overpowered by Nightmare's own. He hears the disturbance of water, the squeeze of it wrung from cloth. The cloth returns, re-scented with the honey-and-herb concoction, cool against Nightmare's forehead.
The hand tilts Nightmare's jaw up, so the cloth can reach down to his throat. Nightmare can't help but shiver when it passes over the scar there, tender as it is to touch and intent.
This bastard is dripping in the taste of satisfaction, covetous pleasure and the sense of being entertained. The taste is sweet, making Nightmare feel a little nauseous and overfull. Limited by iron, his are the only emotions that Nightmare's senses can reach.
(At this rate, Nightmare might be in trouble -- he'll lose his strength if he doesn't feast, and he isn't used to eating from such as this.)
"Docile," The voice thinks aloud. "Not a biter, I take it. Good, very good," he purrs, low and reverberating. The honesty and sincerity in his words pierces through the air, unmistakable.
"my teeth are not my weapon of choice," Nightmare growls. "do not think me docile just because i await a better chance."
"There is the spunk. You've been so well behaved I was starting to worry you'd been broken," The voice chitters. "Not that that would be a dealbreaker for me: I wouldn't mind putting a pretty thing like you back together, but broken minds are so much more difficult than bodies."
Nightmare feels like the choir being preached to.
"And just look at the state of you," that voice continues, bringing the cloth lower to grind slow over Nightmare's shoulders and clavicle. "Whoever had you before didn't know anything about taking care of nice things~"
Nightmare grits his teeth. He took care of himself, and he did a damn good job. He was alive. He is alive.
The cloth leaves again, being rinsed of his ichor and re-soaked in that mixture of water and medicine. Nightmare can't know for sure what's in it (bound and sealed as he is), but he smells honey, and mint, and aloe, at the very least.
One of those hands takes hold of Night's bent leg, and the cloth starts to clean at his tibia and fibula. It works down to his foot, taking its sweet fucking time, lingering on the raw structures made sensitive by old scarring.
(At least it's cold. It's not as bad when it's cold.)
Another rinse, then the bastard cleans at Nightmare's other leg. Nightmare considers kicking him, but he's never been a physical fighter to begin with. Besides which, his legs are too sensitive -- he'd probably hurt himself before he did any real damage to someone else. No, what Nightmare needs are the cuffs off, the iron removed so he can have his tendrils back. If he can get those free, he has a chance.
Maybe if he waits, he'll get that chance. Mortals can be short-sighted and foolish. If he is only patient...
"Now, your back," The voice hums. Nightmare feels those two hands on him, lifting him up bodily as though he weighs nothing. (Nightmare weighs little, but he doesn't like being reminded of the fact.) He growls low in his own ribs, his exposed wings tucking close to his back even as they puff and bristle with the instinctive reflex to make himself larger and more threatening.
"Shh, no need for all that." The voice shushes Nightmare again, a soft whisper of noise as he lays Nightmare down on his front, a pillow under his head and middle, his legs bent under him for support. One hand pins Nightmare down with a little force on the back of his neck. The slight, warning pressure doesn't bother Nightmare as much as the gentle scritches of that one finger, tracing over the band of scarring that just happens to be in reach, making his wings itch and twitch.
Nightmare just needs to wait. He needs to be patient. He'll get his revenge if he only survives long enough for the iron to rust away (or be removed).
(What will happen to his things without him. He needs to get back to his things. He can't just wait forever. He has to wait. He can't wait-)
That cold cloth comes down on one of Nightmare's wings. The scent of it, which has been strong enough (dizzyingly so) when against his face, is suddenly overwhelming. Nightmare sucks in a sharp, deep breath, trying to respire more so he will synthesize less (and smell less intensely). "you'll pay for this," he rasps, tension coiling in his spine.
"Will I." The voice doesn't sound as concerned as Nightmare thinks it ought to be. The cloth glides over his leaves, wiping away ichor and leaving behind condensation and scent. "Perhaps. But the price has yet to be decided." Those fingers dig a bit deeper, curling up against Nightmare's scapula under what little of his wings he still has. Sensation shocks through him (pleasure, it's pleasure, whether he likes it or not), making his back arch as much as that hand on his neck will allow. "Although I already paid quite a bit for the privilege."
(Nightmare isn't thinking about that. He isn't thinking about it-)
"Your wings twitch when you react. You're quite responsive, aren't you?" The voice taunts him. "What is it? Do you like the idea of being owned? Of being valued?" He leans closer, whispering in Nightmare's acoustic meatus. "Or is it being wanted that makes you quiver so?"
Nightmare claws at the leather wrapped around his fingers, refusing to acknowledge the shiver running down his spine. "téigh trasna ort féin!"
"I don't know that tongue, but I know a curse when I hear one~" The cool cloth shifts again, ripping another sharp breath out of Nightmare. "Do you not want to admit it? That's alright, for now. We'll work on honesty later~"
Nightmare is going to show this irreverent bastard a whole lot of honesty, enough to choke on, even.
The cloth leaves, coming back again re-wet. It strokes along the stiff structural branch of one wing, then slides down again to remove more clinging slime. Nightmare can feel every brush of it, every drop of medicinal soap, every bit of wet friction passing over his leaves.
His wings only itch all the more. Nightmare can't keep them still.
"You're turning pink again. Do the colors mean anything?"
Nightmare decides that is none of this fucker's business.
"I think they must." The voice talks to itself. The bastard re-wets the cloth, then wrings it out over Nightmare's back, splashing his wings with excess scent. Nightmare gasps again, struggling to breathe even when there is plenty of air, the scent just that pervasive and insistent. The bastard starts to scrub at his other wing, switching which hands hold the cloth and which hold Nightmare down.
Medicine-soaked fingers stroke at Nightmare's throat.
The friction is starting to make it hard to think. Nightmare's skull feels over-warm, his fingers and toes burning at the tips with a false-heat. His wings itch, so much so that the cloth starts to bring relief, however brief.
Nightmare's magic drips down, ever down, pooling in his pelvic inlet.
"You make such a mess when all I do is bathe you," The voice continues to prattle on. "One might think it meaningful. Do you like this?" He asks, spreading his fingers wide to stroke teasingly at Nightmare's other scapula. "Does it feel good when I touch here?"
Nightmare's scapulae itch and burn and yearn. He shivers, despite himself. He does not give the bastard the satisfaction of an answer, gritting his teeth against the prompt that begs to be satisfied by his nature.
The voice laughs, leaning in close again. "You don't lie, do you? Or is it that you can't?"
Nightmare hisses, wordless (and devoid of falsehood). But that's when those fingers twitch, just right, just where Nightmare's body wants them to, and that hiss turns to a whimper as if by magic. Old Fear and New Pleasure twist up and down Nightmare's spine, another coil of tension he has no release for. (Those fingers are right there, they could dig in and break something, rip something, but they're not, they're just touching-)
The voice shushes again. "There, it's alright. You've been so good today-" And Nightmare's ashamed of the shiver that runs through himself at the praise, "-much better than I would expect on the first day~. Good, very good, so much promise~"
The hands finally pull away, and Nightmare has a brief moment where he can breathe.
There's the sound of shifting fabric, and then a thick, padded strap wraps over Nightmare's lower back. Moments later, another bit of padded leather wraps around his throat, tethering him in place on the pillows. "Now stay here. I'll be back with breakfast. You must be hungry."
Nightmare doesn't answer that taunt either. He doesn't hunger for food, but he does need sustenance. Something other than the glee and delight that he's been choking down all morning.
Nightmare needs his strength to escape. He needs to escape... The heat and scent of sweetness makes it hard to think.
Nightmare shudders, gasping for air as he fights off the instinct to retch. He's already gagged and thrown up three times that day, and he's so, so tired. He doesn't want to do it anymore.
"Fruit is no good, but meat is too heavy..." The voice mutters. "Bread isn't much better... But you cannot starve, moonlight. We must find something you can keep down." One hand rubs at Nightmare's back, up and down his spine between his shoulderblades, while another wipes his face clean with a wet cloth.
Nightmare can still taste cloying sick in his mouth. The taste of failure, sickly sweet and rancid. He's so, so tired, too tired to even sit upright. He slumps into the body next to him, wishing he could curl up alone.
He might have even preferred being left tied down to the bed, but he had been picked up for feeding. (He spitefully hopes the bastard regrets being that close when Nightmare choked.)
"...Maybe a liquid diet would suit you better..." The voice hums, stroking warm fingers over Nightmare's skull and neck and shoulders. He holds Nightmare against his chest like he wants him there.
Nightmare can't think about it too much. It makes something in him ache.
The urge to retch finally passes, and Nightmare slumps, exhausted, his head against what he thinks is the bastard's shoulder. Nightmare will not have the energy to escape at this rate: he needs to rest.
At least the concern and worry in the air is digestible. Even if it isn't particularly nourishing, it's something.
Those hands gather Nightmare up, then lay him on his side, with a pillow under his head. The thing he's laying on is endlessly soft, a decadence he's never known. He wonders absently if this is what beds are supposed to feel like, just as a soft blanket is pulled over him. It's warm, a soft, gentle warmth that doesn't hurt to rest in. Nightmare lets himself rest...
...
Nightmare is roused again, propped up at a sharp angle.
"Once more, darling," The voice murmurs. A tube of some kind is eased between Nightmare's teeth. He tries to turn away from it, but he's too tired to put up much physical fight. The iron weighs heavy, and he's used up so much energy purging himself, and even before that he barely survived drowning. He's wrung out, and in that moment those fingers under his jaw have more strength in them than he has in his whole body.
Scented water pours down Nightmare's throat. It's warm (though not much more so than lukewarm), and sweet. Sugar water? Water and honey and traces of bitter leaves.
Is this meant to be poison?
Nightmare is used to poison. At least he understands poison. Yet, poison shouldn't be sweet...
...He swallows.
"...There we are. Good, good boy," The voice purrs.
Nightmare hates how those words warm the air, how they taste as sweet as the sugar water he can swallow without gagging.
The funnel is eventually removed. By then, Nightmare's taken in enough to feel weighed down. He too-easily slips back into unconsciousness, left in the cocoon of softness as inescapable as any iron shackles.
It's a few days of fading in and out of that soft, warm place, as if Nightmare is trapped in it. The scent of herbs and honey clouds the room, and Nightmare only really tastes that honey-sweet tea he's fed a few times a day. He's washed with the cool cloth, and touched by those hands, deft fingers preening at his wings until there's more mess to clean away.
It's three days of this before Nightmare wakes without the background static of his salt-cold headache.
"Good morning, little bonsai," That voice titters. The light in the room is so dim, Nightmare can barely make out the shape of the bastard through his wings, but he thinks he is sitting on the edge of the bed-space, with maybe a book in his hands that he sets aside.
"release me," Nightmare demands. He feels like he's said it before, but he can't recall.
"Say, please," the voice answers, those achingly familiar fingers cupping Nightmare's chin, tilting it up to expose his neck. "And I might consider undoing the cuffs."
Nightmare has been away from home too long as it is. He cannot waste any more time, even if it means owing a debt. "......please." He whispers, rasps, "free me."
"Good, good pet," The voice praises, and Nightmare cringes at the way his SOUL flutters at even mocking praise. It's all magnified by the kiss, gentle and soft, applied to his forehead over the blindfold. "You can learn manners. You're doing so well..!"
Those hands slide down, and Nightmare hears a soft click. The weight tying his magic down lightens somewhat, lightens enough that he can finally squeeze another tendril out to snap around the bastard's fucking throat-
(He owes him a favor. That favor can be his life-)
A hand grasps the tendril, stopping it midair. "Ah, I see~" Another click, and Nightmare feels the weight on his SOUL once again. The strength he'd managed to muster into that tendril goes slack, making it easy to overpower even for the mortal bastard holding him down. "It isn't the leather that holds you, it's the iron. I see, I see~"
Nightmare feels tricked. He feels foolish. He acted too soon, and lost his chance. "release me-!"
The voice shushes him again, but what really quiets Nightmare is the way his tendril is pinned to one side. Nightmare immediately tries to squirm away, but another hand pins his body down, holding it in place in the softness around him. "Seems it is too soon to trust you with a little freedom. You still need training, don't you?"
"how dare you suggest-" Nightmare bites off his own words when those fingers start to stroke his tendril. He's never been held down like this before (not since That Time), never had control wrenched from him. While he has always used his tendrils to hold and touch and explore, nobody has ever held them back with anything but fear in their fingers. Nightmare didn't realize just how sensitive they were to intent, and how numb he'd become to the negativity around him. Just a few wet strokes, slickened by Nightmare's own shedding, is enough to send pleasure through his system and wrench an embarrassing noise out of him.
Nightmare has to retract his tendril, quick!
"Giving up already?" The voice asks, letting go of Nightmare's tendril, letting him take it back with little resistance. "What a quick witted, clever thing you are. Very good. Very, very, good~" The voice purrs, both hands on Nightmare's body now, one holding him down at his chest while the other strokes his face. "But you did misbehave, and that means consequences. We can't have you thinking it's alright to behave violently, can we?"
The hands pull away. The bastard takes a few steps back.
Nightmare braces for pain. Consequences mean pain. He knows that. He just has to take his lumps and wait for another opportunity...
What actually comes is a bit of cloth soaked in something powerfully aromatic. The scent of it makes Nightmare dizzy before it even comes near his face. He's held down so he can't escape, and the scented cloth is held against his nasal passage.
"Breathe," The voice orders. "Breathe deeply, it's alright."
Nightmare holds his breath out of spite for a while, but he can't hold it forever. His first gulp of desperate air fills his senses with those spring-scents, something heavy in musk and sugar-sweetness. A few more breaths, and he feels a fever overtake him, heat spreading from that space between his eye sockets, his fingertips, his toes, his wings, and his pelvis. His body starts to itch all over, much like when the bastard is having his way with him, but in an all-consuming way that Nightmare has long since come to recognize as an unfortunate part of his own nature.
"no-!!"
"Shh, yes, this is your punishment," The voice murmurs, soft, gleeful. "You're going to learn manners the hard way. But that's alright. I'm sure your new master will enjoy helping to teach you..."
By the time that damned scent is taken away, Nightmare's whole being is consumed by an itching, yearning fever. His magic has already manifested in his pelvis, dripping and trembling as much as his wings. He can't help squirming, trying to get friction in any way possible, even with his hands bound. But what he can do with his negligible weight and unimpressive stamina only serves to make the need that much more unbearable.
The next thing Nightmare knows, more leather straps are on him, pinning his legs up and spread wide in a humiliating, vulnerable display.
The bastard kneels between his legs, rubbing at one femur as the other hand teases at his magic. "You do look so lovely in pink, a spring flower. Your master loves sweet things..."
"fuck. you." Nightmare snarls.
Two fingers plunge into his magic, slipping in easily with how much lubrication there is. The stimulation is more than enough to shake a whimper out of Nightmare, whether he likes it or not.
(He hates how good it feels, how much that weak part of him wants it.)
"In due time. But this is a punishment, so you don't get what you want." Those fingers churn Nightmare up from the inside, bringing him to the edge of release before pulling away, leaving him a shakier, needier mess than when they started. "Now, stay here, like a good little pet, and wait for me to come back~"
The bastard leaves.
Nightmare can't leave. He can barely move, between the iron cuffs on his wrists limiting his power and his new condition draining him as fast as he can gather himself. Every breath he takes makes his wings grind into the pillows, teasing friction that does nothing but make his need to be touched that much more unbearable. His neck tingles, his pelvis itches, and his everything is hot like he's caught in a sunbeam at the height of spring.
And all he can do is wait.
Nightmare's sense of time is near-perfect. It's just one of those unremarkable parts of his nature that doesn't have any practical use (beyond some time-sensitive promise-keeping). That's how he knows it's 4 fucking hours before that bastard comes back.
Four hours of fevered, restless aching. Four hours of being too close to some kind of relief by the nature of his own sensitivity, and not close enough. He's shed so much his wings have blinded themselves, leaving him entirely in the dark.
Nightmare almost doesn't hear the door open over the sound of his own breathing.
"are you gonna tell me now?" Asks a new voice, shedding curiosity. Nightmare tenses, squirming in greater earnest out of a sudden, vivid desire to hide his compromised condition. He can't: he's just as trapped as he was when he was first tethered to the bed.
"Almost," says the bastard, gleeful and eager. "I did promise to offer the finest gift for your enthronement."
"you did, you did, but why do we have to come all the way here for-" The new voice stops. excitement bursts almost like a physical thing. "oh, brauma, my friend, you never disappoint me. it's beautiful."
"I knew you'd love it," The first voice purrs. "He's still feral, untrained, but has such a sweet temperament under it all that I couldn't ask for more."
Nightmare is seriously considering biting the bastard, just once: How dare he call him sweet. How dare he say it with sincerity.
"may i?" Asks the second voice.
"That's why you're here," The first answers. "He needs to be socialized and taught who his master is. You should be here for this part, at least~"
Weight shifts in the softness under Nightmare. He can't help trembling (although he refuses to deconstruct what he actually anticipates).
A hand that isn't the (first) bastard's settles on Nightmare's leg, stroking up and down his tibia before sliding down his femur. "you know just what i like."
"That is because your majesty has exquisite taste," the bastard hums.
"get-" Nightmare can't stand how soft and fragile his voice is. He swallows. "get your hands off of me..!"
"shh," The new voice is soft as a whisper, deep and smooth, as if twisting itself in a silk cord around Nightmare's throat. "i've got you, pretty, it's alright. relax..."
Nightmare's so fucking outraged that all he can do is hiss. The condescension! The audacity. He is The Nightmare, the absolute evil of the multiverse!
A soft, wet, slick thing presses up against the bundle of nerves manifested in Nightmare's ecto. His hissing is cut off sharp as he chokes down as less dignified noise. He arches his back despite himself, trembling as pleasure shoots up his spine and back down again as eager heat. Touch. He's being touched-
That touch retreats, and with it Nightmare's relief from the fevered yearning. He can't help squirming, although no amount of his own efforts will ever bring him the relief he seeks.
That second voice purrs. "delicious. sweeter than honey."
"He makes several colors," The bastard says. "Although the other two I've seen have a chance of being less than tasty, pink is always sweet."
"then i can have my fill!" The second chirps.
"no-" Nightmare snarls, only to bite down on another noise as what he thinks is a tongue returns to his clit. More pleasure rakes through him, scratching the least intolerable of his itches.
That tongue lavs slow and languid over sensitive nerves, lapping up Nightmare's sheds at its own lazy pace. Nightmare grits his teeth, fighting down every little noise that tries to surface.
He can't fight them all. A surprise motion, the drag of fingertips on his legs, a squeeze at his hips, the sudden reprieve just before he can climax: every little thing seems to wring more out of his oversensitive body.
"he tastes sweeter by the minute," The second voice drawls.
"Does he?" The bastard hums, his hand catching hold of Nightmare's face. "Do you like being teased by your master that much? Does it feel good?"
Nightmare wants to say no. He wants to spit it into their faces. The word dies in his throat before he can try to utter it, and not just because that fucking tongue has its way with him again, making him squirm.
"See how quiet he tries to get when he doesn't like the answer?" The baster titters. "I don't think he can lie."
"really?" The second hums, so close that Nightmare can feel his breath against his magic. "you can tell us if it doesn't feel good. i want you to enjoy this too." That tongue returns, curling in teasing circles, making Nightmare see stars even in the blindfold.
"True, true," The bastard murmurs. "Just say it isn't pleasurable. Just say it~" His thumb, stinking of herbs, strokes too-sweetly over Nightmare's cheek.
They're taunting him, and they know it.
"It must feel very good if you can't say otherwise," The bastard murmurs. 'You're such a good, honest pet~"
Nightmare's magic clenches and spasms despite himself.
"what an enthusiastic response to praise~!" The second voice peels, sounding a little wet.
"fuck you." Nightmare can't stand being silent. He can't stand being helpless, being played with.
(Even if it does feel good. Even if he's so overwhelmed by pleasure he can't think straight.)
"if you insist," Purrs the second voice, right before something more substantial than a tongue presses into Nightmare.
Heat, pleasure, and pressure all culminate into a single point and shoot up Nightmare's spine, crashing through his SOUL with little warning. The noise he makes is obscene, wet and pitiful and vulnerable. His spine pops in several places, cathartic, and he feels the mess of his sheds as they splatter out under him.
"Lovely," Murmurs the bastard. "To think all it took were some aromatics to make you this inviting~"
Nightmare didn't invite them anywhere. ...The praise to his hospitality still makes him shiver. He considers trying to bite him. He doesn't want to bite. He's tired of biting. He can't fix what he breaks like this. He can't break what he can't fix..! He wants to flee!! "release m-!!!" His voice breaks the moment the other bastard starts to thrust his fingers (they must be fingers, the way they curl and scissor), friction and sensation (pleasure) coil new tension, electric and hot and persistent, around Nightmare's spine. His toes curl, and he slams his head back harder into the pillows, his wings thrashing and fluttering helplessly under him.
"aromatics?" The other asks. "do you think we could fill a little mask with it? maybe he'd be easier to train with incentive."
Nightmare can barely think about anything but what's being done to him. About what that traitorous part of him wishes they would get along with doing just to make the itching, the yearning, finally stop. He can taste how much these bastards are enjoying every moment of this, as if Nightmare rendered this vulnerable and helpless and sensitive is the best thing that's ever happened to them.
"You always have such marvelous ideas," The first coos. "I'll get right to work on that. Maybe a little sedative to help keep down his anxiety."
That tongue returns to Nightmare's magic, vibrating with a low groan from the other bastard. Nightmare writhes, trying to stave off the mounting, incoming peak.
It's too much-
Nightmare comes, again. That burst of pleasure is the last thing he knows before he passes out.