What Do You Think That C!Dream Would Think Or Feel About C!Will Using Him As A Way To Externalize His

Cat beanies :>

the real sad thing is wil never needed to do anything big, extravagant or legendary to ever make his father proud. idk maybe to just exist was enough imao

absolutely. cphilza would be very proud to have raised a peaceful, artistic son. phil was never as explicit about entering retirement as techno was (probably because, as an immortal, that doesn't really mean anything) but he was happy to hunker down with his retired friend and presumably stay there until he inevitably outlived him. some of the most explicit on-screen advice we see cphilza give cwilbur is how to give a good apology. this isn't a man who wanted to raise a warmonger.

Fenris

Have a brainrot that has been stuck with me for a while now, since it is soon to be February and you know I can only stay away from creating new AUs for so long:

Please Consider, cupid!Dream that is very dedicated to his job of matchmaking and the best at hitting all the KPIs, maybe he even gotten the best worker of the year award but he is oblivious to anyone’s love for him.

Like…

Dream: your strategy of showing love by giving matching gifts is really helping with my most recent match! Thank you!

Techno who has given at least a few matching rings/accessories: …you are welcome…

.

Dream: truly, the road to true love is via one stomach!

Farfadox who has been making food for Dream: …

.

Dream: from friends to lovers! The most natural progression!

Sapnap: … I am right here

Yes this was the last drawing of 2024, Just never posted it.

Some wips I have in the workss

And if I post this? Then what? What’ll you do? I believe I’m in the right here.

Prompt: Dream is released from prison and one night when Sam's trying to sleep the full scope of what he did hits him.

oh this one was heartwrenching anon im in love

the idea that sam and dream were FRIENDS before pandora haunts me so much ,, dream TRUSTED him, at one point, and sam trusted him back ,, it’s really the cherry on top of the whole dang screwed up cake that is the prison :’)

anyway, as is becoming the norm on this blog, please note the warnings bc this gets heavy!

tw: abuse (physical/emotional), toxic relationships, effects of starvation (it’s brief but it’s there), violence, panic attacks, illness, blood, gore (?)

There is blood on the pickaxe.

Sam's hand brushes over the netherite; even in the dark room, the metal, lit by the soft lavender light of enchantments, is clearly stained reddish-brown, some flecks reaching the polished wooden handle. He must've forgotten to clean it after the last session with the prisoner- Dream, throwing it and the rest of his Warden set in a chest haphazardly before going to sleep.

His fingers brush against it; the edge is ragged from a lack of maintenance, the dried blood leaving the entire surface patchy and irregular. The bottom of the handle is well-worn, the wood easily molding to the palm of his hand, the weight familiar. He watches himself move it with a strange sort of disconnect, maneuvering the tool - weapon around with almost more ease than his own sword. He flips it around, fingers easily finding the nick in the top third of the handle, the groove where metal meets wood, eyes tracing his own handwriting, words written in neat, blocky script along the bottom edge of the netherite.

Warden's Will Breaker

The Warden. It's hard to remember that that person was even him, wearing netherite like a second skin, sword perpetually within reach, a monotone voice and metal mask to hide everything soft away; completely emotionless, until the pickaxe was in his hand and every feeling he'd kept bottled deep beneath came up, furious, suffocating, leaving nothing behind but a simmering rage that demanded release-

(Blood on his hands the sound of cracking bones tugging on the handle and meeting resistance screams echoing on obsidian please please Sam stop please stop please-)

He breathes in, out, the pickaxe (Will Breaker) still lying in his hands, still stained with blood. He blinks down at it; it feels wrong to hold it without the rest of the Warden's gear on his body, to carry this thing still saturated with memories of dark shadows and stifling heat and so much pain, to be staring at it without the weight of a mask on his face, of armor sitting against his shoulders, of a sword on his hip. It feels like it belongs to someone else entirely, completely out of place against his creeper print pajama pants (courtesy of Ponk) and knit slippers; it feels foreign, even with memories of it held in his hands flash through his head.

(you deserve this you are a monster you didn't stop when he asked you to I'll stop when you're sorry I'll stop when you're broken behave behave behave)

The prison was all boxes, hard edges; there was no room for kindness, no room for mercy. The prison meant that he was the Warden, that Dream was the Prisoner, that they would not, could not step out of the roles carved for them in the unforgiving obsidian. The walls were stark; every inch deliberate, methodical, necessary. The Warden held the monster and the Prisoner sought to escape his Labyrinth and thus went the game, everlasting, until one of them broke, until one of them failed, Will Breaker, really, only meant to speed up the process-

Only that didn't quite happen.

The Prisoner left, but didn't escape; the Warden was no longer needed, but did not fail. In the end, it was Sam that found Dream wheezing, feverish, in the back of his cell, Sam who carried the man across the bridge, feeling him lie limply in his arms, all skin and bones, Sam who brought him into the Community House as everyone clamored over his weak and dying body.

He'd been released from Pandora (for the foreseeable future, Puffy had said, voice trembling, until he's well enough to stand trial) and Sam, unable to stare at the still-unconscious man and remember his own hands covered in blood and bits of shattered bone, had left to hide away in his base. Until he's needed to be the Warden, again, he'd muttered to himself on the boat ride over, until that responsibility is once again his to bear.

It's harder to justify it all, here, where his floor is covered in carpet and dog hair, where there's a soft light behind him from the redstone lamp hooked up next to his bed, where everything from the Warden has been scrubbed away and left just Sam, limbs a bit gangly, hunched down over a chest that's just a bit too short for him to reach comfortably, feelings raw and painful like an exposed nerve. It's hard to say that the violence and cruelty were necessary, looking at the walls laid down by hands kinder than his own, the remnants of pie still stuck in his chests and blocks of bright pink wool (You Matter <3) decorating the few that he hasn't opened in a while, staring at the soft-edged memories of someone that had yet to know that pickaxes could be stained red by something other than redstone.

("You're leaving?" Dream, younger, hands knotting in the bottom hem of his hoodie.

"Just for a bit," readjusting his crown from where it stands, off-center, on his head; Dream laughing and reaching up to straighten it for him. "I just want to explore a little. Find somewhere open where I can really rig some stuff up, you know?"

"I can't believe the things you do with that crap, man," freckled cheeks rising in a brilliant smile. "It's insane."

"You're pretty insane yourself, Mr. Manhunt," Dream tosses his head back, wheezing, and Sam laughs with him. The sun rises over them, sky pale and pink and beautiful.

"Well, this is the Community House, Awesam," Dream pulls him in, arms wrapping around his neck, head bumping against his chin. "You're always welcome here."

He smiles, soft, murmuring an agreement that rumbles deep and low in his chest. "I know. Y'all take care of yourselves, ok?"

"Of course," Dream punches him, lightly, in the shoulder, trying and failing to hide the way his eyes shine. "We always do.")

The pickaxe falls from his hand, clattering to the ground. Distantly, Sam realizes he's crying.

Prime, what had he done?

Oh so it wasn't necessary to speak up when the slur slinging slasher called dream slurs, physically assaulted him, and harassed a service worker, but it's necessary to speak up about a tweet?

@rivalsduogiftexchange gift for @thecaptainamore !

A cup of tea as Dream recovers from prison. It’ll take some time, but he’ll get there. It’s a long road to recovery