Power play and pillow talk: A week with the enemy

No One PoV:

When Quackity lost the bet, he knew something was wrong the moment Dream smiled.

Not the usual grin. Not the competitive smirk.

The dangerous one.

“One week living in my bunker,” Dream had declared casually, like he was announcing the weather. “Alone. No portal access. No visitors. Just us. How does that sound?”

Quackity stared at him. “What the— how is that fair?!”

Sapnap nearly fell over laughing. George wheezed. Technoblade simply nodded once

like this was inevitable.

“It was a fair loss,” Dream said smoothly. “You agreed to the rules.”

“I didn’t agree to psychological torture.”

Dream leaned in slightly. “That’s subjective.”

And that was how Quackity found himself hauling supplies underground, listening to the bunker door seal shut behind him with a heavy mechanical thud that felt a little too final.

Day 1

The bunker wasn’t small.

That was the problem.

It was spacious. Organized. Comfortable.

It didn’t feel like a punishment chamber. It felt lived in. Personal.

And Dream moved through it like it was an extension of himself.

Quackity was irritated before he even set his bag down. And when I say irritated, I mean vibrating-with-hostility irritated.

He was trapped for a week with the one person who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

He did not expect Dream to be shirtless.

Not casually.

Not sprawled across the couch like he owned gravity.

Dream lounged with one arm behind his head, green eyes sharp and amused as they tracked Quackity’s every movement.

“You’re staring,” Dream said lazily.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m assessing the environment.”

“Is the environment attractive?”

Quackity threw a pillow at him.

Dream caught it without looking.

Menace.

The first night set the tone quickly.

Dream brushed past him in the kitchen when there was clearly enough space not to. Their fingers brushed when passing tools. Dream leaned just slightly too close when reaching for something over Quackity’s shoulder.

Every movement deliberate.

Every reaction studied.

Late that night, when the bunker lights dimmed and the world above them quieted, Dream’s voice floated from the couch.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I could’ve made the bet worse.”

Quackity didn’t look up from where he was reorganizing supplies for the third time.

“Don’t.”

“Could’ve made you sleep in the same bed.” Dream’s tone dipped lower. “Sharing sheets. Feeling my breath on your neck.”

A pillow smacked into his face.

Dream laughed.

And the worst part?

He sounded genuinely entertained.

But when the lights went out completely, and Quackity pretended to sleep on the far side of the bunker, he noticed something.

Dream didn’t move for a long time.

No teasing.

No smug comments.

Just stillness.

And in that stillness, there were faint scars along Dream’s side, visible in the low light. Old. Faded. Real.

Quackity looked away quickly.

He hated that he noticed.

Day 2

P

Quackity woke up to the smell of something cooking.

That was wrong.

Dangerous villains did not cook breakfast.

He stumbled into the kitchen area, hair messy, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Dream was barefoot, humming under his breath, flipping pancakes like this was domestic and not deeply suspicious behavior.

“What the hell are you doing?” Quackity asked.

Dream turned, smiling easily.

“Making pancakes. I figured you’d be cranky if I didn’t feed you.”

Quackity blinked.

“The most dangerous villain on the server knows how to cook?”

Dream shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”

He plated a stack and slid it across the counter.

“Try them,” Dream said. “Or glare at me until I cry. Your choice.”

Quackity hesitated.

Then took a bite.

And immediately regretted it.

They were good.

Really good.

Dream leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, watching him carefully.

“You’re quiet,” Dream observed.

“I’m ignoring you.”

“Cute.”

Quackity glared.

“I meant it,” Dream continued, eyes dropping briefly. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed. Especially with messy hair.”

Quackity stiffened.

Dream’s gaze dragged lazily downward.

“And bear chested.”

Fork slammed.

“Dream, I swear to God—”

“Relax,” Dream said calmly. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

The wink was unnecessary.

Infuriating.

“You’re going to get murdered,” Quackity warned.

“Oh, but not yet.” Dream’s voice lowered, softer now. “Because part of you likes it when I talk like this.”

Quackity didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

And Dream noticed.

His smile sharpened.

“See you at lunch, duckling.”

The nickname hit like a thrown dagger.

Quackity stormed off, face burning.

Dream laughed quietly to himself.

But once Quackity disappeared into the lower level of the bunker, Dream’s smile faded.

He stared at the untouched second plate.

The one he had made automatically.

For someone who wasn’t there.

He set it aside without comment.

Later That Night

The tension shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just subtly.

Quackity was reading at the table when the bunker lights flickered.

Dream cursed softly from the control panel.

“Power hiccup,” he muttered.

The lights dimmed again before stabilizing.

For a second, in the low glow, the teasing version of Dream disappeared.

He looked tired.

Human.

Quackity noticed.

“You okay?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Dream paused.

Then shrugged.

“Yeah.”

But it wasn’t convincing.

Quackity watched him a little longer.

This wasn’t just a power play anymore.

Dream wasn’t only pushing buttons.

He was letting himself be seen.

The scars.

The cooking.

The quiet moments.

The lack of actual cruelty.

And that was more destabilizing than the flirting.

Because if Dream was just a menace,

Quackity could hate him easily.

But this?

This was complicated.

That night, when Dream passed him in the hallway, their shoulders brushed again.

Neither moved away immediately.

Neither commented on it.

The bunker felt smaller.

Warmer.

And for the first time since the bet, Quackity wasn’t thinking about escape.

He was thinking about the way Dream’s voice softened when he thought no one was listening.

And that was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

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