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As soon as Dream walked into Logstedshire he noticed it. He always noticed.
He had spent the last few weeks working with Tommy to make the blond his, his muse, his puppet. It wasn’t conditioning, he was fixing Tommy. He was protecting Tommy, why would he hurt Tommy?
Yes, he had punished Tommy once in a while but Tommy wasn’t listening; always whining about missing friends and wanting to end it all. He couldn’t have that, no, Tommy was his to keep safe, he was Tommy’s friend. His only friend. Tubbo wasn’t here, Ghostbur had all but abandoned Tommy, so he had to be his friend.
He had noticed something wrong about Tommy as soon as he walked through the portal. He always did. Tommy was sitting on the burnt grass, placing sticks of different sizes into a neat pile, thicker ones on the side while the more skinny ones leaned on each other, kindling made of leaves shoved together.
That wasn’t Tommy’s method, that wasn’t what Dream had taught him. It was too precise. Too easy to create. Too organized. Dream had remembered who used this method - Technoblade.
Then when he called out Tommy’s name, he was met with sunken blue eyes hidden by unruly blond hair, tied in a braid. Tommy hadn’t flinched before looking over, neither having familiar hunched shoulders Dream had taught was better. Tommy held himself high, chin up, shoulder tight, eyes darting over his form and to his hands like watching for cues or sudden attacks. Prediction. Waiting for danger. Assessing for unknown advantages. It wasn’t Tommy, it wasn’t Dream’s Tommy. It was Wilbur's. Wilbur’s training.
The two men controlled Tommy’s actions like ghosts without stepping foot on the island, Dream didn’t like that. He was supposed to be controlling Tommy, to show him what route to take, who to listen to too - not two familiars who seemed to always stop his plans.
He walked over to Tommy - slow, deliberate - watching the teen sit up straight, throat tighten as he unconsciously braced himself in the same way he did back in Pogtopia when Wilbur barked orders like a madman and Techno corrected his grip on a sword.
Tommy hadn’t even realized he was doing it.
But Dream did. He always would. That’s what friends do, right? They looked out for each other, and, right now, Tommy was following dangerous patterns. Patterns that weren't allowed.
“Tommy,” Dream called out sweetly, keeping his hands behind himself, knowing he had to be careful. If the other citizens noticed new marks and bandages on Tommy, they’d questioned. Dream didn’t like questioning, they always pried too much. He was doing Tommy a favor, bad habits needed to be eliminated before they grew. “You’re doing it again.”
Tommy's breath had caught, freezing mid movement. “What?”
Dream crouched down to Tommy's height, tilting his head, face hidden by the white porcelain mask that had a drawn on smiley face and rosy cheeks. “You’re holding yourself like him. Like Wilbur.” Tommy looked like he was about to protest before pausing, letting Dream continue. “Shoulder back, eyes checking for weapons,” He lightly tapped the axe by his side, as if reminding Tommy of the chases that ended in blood. “It’s all Wilbur. You don’t realize it, do you?” His voice was patronizingly sweet, as if explaining to a kid.
Tommy didn’t respond, face flashing with confusion, embarrassment, and what Dream could only assume was guilt. It was a sore spot, Dream knew that, but Tommy needed to listen. He had tried too hard for Tommy to become obedient for it to unravel now.
“And the wood,” Dream continued, lazily gesturing to the pile of sticks. “You don’t do precise, that isn’t you. Techno taught you that, his little soldier boy.”
Dream glanced at Tommy to check for a reaction, Tommy seemed to only hold himself closer, bruised hands and scared arms instinctively holding his tattered baseball shirt closer despite it not protecting him. Nothing could protect him but Dream, Tommy needed to realize that.
“I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s what I'm worried about,” Dream’s voice was gentle, too calm for the situation, filled with concern. Cupping Tommy's face in gloves hands, brushing wild hair away from his face, he pressed hard enough to keep Tommy looking at him. “You don’t even realize it.”
Tommy kept looking at the dot eyes, blue eyes flickering to the side of Dream before flicking back - almost scared to look away, to be found not paying attention.
“You're carrying habits, their habits.” Dream murmured, carrying a distasteful tone as if their names would poison his Tommy, his puppet to control. He kept a firm hold on Tommy, thumb brushing on Tommy's cheek. “I don't want them here, I don't want you corrupted.”
He wasn't corrupting Tommy, he was saving Tommy. Sometimes you needed to be forceful to dogs for them to listen and that's what he was doing, it wasn't abuse. He looked after Tommy, bandaging and comforting the boy. He's not an abuser.
Tommy had gone still, breathing in an uneven tone before speaking out, trying to get out of Dream's hold until it became futile, red hand marks starting to appear on his face.
“That's not- I wasn't trying to-”
“I know you weren't, but do they?” He released Tommy before the hand prints would become noticeable. Tommy already wore Dream's green bandages, Tommy was his to claim, he didn't need to leave anything more. “You're mine to look after, to support. And you don't get to keep the pieces they left you with.”
Dream stood up, watching Tommy slump slightly as he trampled the leaf kindling, sticks snapping in half as he heard a sorrowed but accepting sigh. That was the Tommy he wanted, the boy he was molding.
He walked beside the teen, placing warm hands on Tommy's cold shoulders - the coldness and harsh wind was making Tommy sicker every day, but how was Tommy supposed to learn to adapt? - as he fixed the boy's posture, not harshly but enough force to keep them in place.
“Remember, you stay how I made you. No soldier stance, and no Pogtopia tricks.” He watched as Tommy forced himself to relax his posture, arms hung beside his sides almost pathetically, staring at the burnt grass beside the pit where he often threw his stuff in to get burnt. It was the only way to keep Tommy from having a comfortable exile that wasn't the purpose.
Dream placed hand softly on Tommy's shoulder, feeling the tears in the fabric of his shirt, keeping it lingering there to keep Tommy alert. “See? Much better.”
Tommy didn't answer, only nodding, as Dream ran a hand through the blond braid, undoing the hard work until the overgrown hair reached Tommy's shoulder.
“You don't need Wilbur's paranoia, you don't need Techno's discipline. You only need me.” Dream spoke, tracing a smiley face into Tommy's shoulder, imagining the axe sliding against the ivory skin, a permanent mark that Tommy was his forever, that he would always be there to watch Tommy.
Tommy had tensed but stiffly nodded, leaning almost hesitantly into Dream's touch. Dream was his only friend, he should be comfortable around him, he had to look comfortable - people would question, Dream didn't want that to happen. Tommy would be taken away, that could never happen.
“Good boy.” Dream cooed condescendingly, patting Tommy on the head as he stood up, looking down at the still sitting Tommy. He wasn't Wilbur's protégé or Techno's soldier boy, Tommy was his puppet and his only. His habits would start to fade away, he would make sure of it.
Every time Tommy slipped, Dream would rip it away. It wasn't harmful, it was protection, he was helping Tommy stay useful, stay untouched. Bit by bit, he would replace any instincts left to ones he put, ones that would help Dream, keep Tommy safe.