Ranboo Couldn't Breathe. He Had Fallen Into A Spiral For Seemingly No Reason, And Now He Couldn't Get

handmade warmth

for the @sixteenth-day-event

The cold made Dream’s leg hurt. He rubbed a hand over his residual limb, massaging the scarred flesh and the muscle remained. It was a phantom pain and it annoyed him, that unwanted reminder of what had happened in the prison. He had told Techno that if it was in his mind then he should be able to control it and Techno hadn’t laughed but had given him an oddly tight smile and said he wasn’t sure it worked like that. Leaning forward, Dream held his hands out to the fire. It was low now, as the evening had dragged into night, and that was letting in the chill that caused the aching in his joints.

He thought about calling for Techno, who had disappeared upstairs for something he promised was important, to add another log. He could do it himself on a good day but he was tired and the muscle spasm in his leg when he had moved still hadn’t faded. Some rational part of his mind said it had been barely over a month since he had escaped the prison and it made sense he wasn’t up to much yet. Dream had been studiously ignoring it.

The metal poker was just within reach if Dream tipped the chair over just a little.

“If you fall, I am gonna laugh at you,” came Techno’s voice from behind him.

The chair dropped back to floor with a thud and Dream turned around with the best scowl he could manage, cheeks red and hot.

“I’m not—Shut up, Techno, you’re—you’re the one who left me here for, like, three hours,” said Dream, eyes flicking to the window as he tried to judge how much time had passed. The snow outside, tinted purple by the beacons, made it difficult.

“Bruh, it was not three hours.”

Dream rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, sinking into the chair.

“It felt like three hours.” Dream glanced down. “What’s that?”

The ‘that’ in question was a large package that was tucked under Techno’s arm. It was wrapped in paper decorated with snowflakes and holly and it was lumpy. The bow that had been carefully tied around it was crushed a little. Techno held it out and patted one hand against it.

“It’s a present, Dream,” he said, crossing the room to stand in front of Dream. He set in his lap. “Merry Christmas, man.”

Blinking a couple times, Dream ran his hand over the package and then frowned.

“It’s not even Christmas.”

Techno glanced at the fireplace then reached for a log. He carefully placed it on top, the flames licking at his fingers, and if it burnt, he didn’t seem to notice. Pulling his rocking chair a little bit forward, he sat.

“Eh, it’s Christmas Eve. Close enough.” Techno shrugged. “Beside, that’s as much for me as it is for you. Go on, open it, man.”

In the fireplace, the flames licked up the new log. Dream’s frown deepened. There were half a dozen protests he could make – that Christmas Eve still wasn’t Christmas, that he hadn’t gotten anything for Techno – but he began to carefully tear open the paper.

“Whatever,” he muttered. The embarrassed blush was still on his face.

Once the paper was removed, it took Dream a moment to figure out what it was. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, a patchwork of different patterns and colors. Flowers and swirls and geometric shapes. Greens and blues and spots of reds. Dream unfolded the quilt partially. The back was three large blocks of fabric, all shades of dark navy that reminded Dream of the night sky in the arctic. He looked up. Techno was watching with a satisfied expression, mouth curved into a smile, tusks glinting in the firelight.

“What d’you think? Now you can finally stop hoggin’ my blanket,” said Techno.

Dream pulled the quilt further into his lap, letting it spill down across his legs. It was thicker than he had first realized. The weight on his lap was surprisingly comforting. It was warm. The mismatch of colors was pretty and Dream knew it’d be prettier once it was spread out. He loved it.

He said, “Heh. Hogging.”

In the chair across from him, Techno groaned and slapped a hand to his face in an over-exaggerated manner that was mostly to hide the grin. He got to his feet.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m takin’ it back, you’re outta here.”

Those words would’ve once caused a flutter of panic in Dream’s chest, would’ve birthed a snarky comment about wanting to leave, but Techno didn’t mean it. He knew that. Dream tugged the quilt up to his chest.

“No, fuck off, Techno. You made it for me, it’s mine.”

Laughing, Techno bent and tucked the blanket up around Dream’s shoulders.

“Yeah, you got me there, man,” he said. “I’m guessin’ you like it, then.”

The phantom pain had subsided. Dream shifted in the chair and rubbed his chin against the soft fabric of the quilt. A smile slowly worked its way across his face.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Thanks, Techno.”

Yeah

Thinking about how techno said why does god look like you he also has talked about dream being the admin and going on creative mode before which no other character really seems to do to my memory

He also referred to the items Dream gave him when they first met at the mountain as coming from God and that others shouldn't touch them

Which makes me wonder does Techno just think oh yeah Dream is an admin therefore kinda God and he's just out there bullying a God for being homeless

It would be very on character for him

I mean he did kinda bully XD after he gave them back their table, so bullying God is something he seems to do… generally bullying green people…

But I agree. C!Techno is canonically very old, maybe even immortal (idk if that was confirmed)

I can see it’s because c!Techno is so very very old and he has surpassed so many people in his hundreds of years of life, never once losing his one life that when one day this random normal ass human appears, who is on the same level as him, who can rival him in fighting and intelligence that he simply cannot believe that c!Dream is simply human and mortal.

Stages?

👀

STAGES IS MY BABYYYYY i love writing about grief and loss of self, and how to cope with that. C!Dream is perfect for that type of analysis. It started bc I really wanted a way to explore dream and bads relationship and their similarities. They both lost their families and both believe that what happened to them was mostly self inflicted. there's a lot to explore there. And of course I love rivals duo and also wanted to write a scenario where techno isn't able to repay the favor. And, ya know, healing and growing together is such a good trope.

I already have the first chapter posted on my AO3 but I've written so much for this fic but still never managed enough to finish another full chapter ughhughhuh. I've also posted some of this fic here but there are so many nuggets I've written that I'd love to share (sorry all my excerpts are so long 😭😭)

"I can barely walk, I can't fight-! I'm helpless. I'm at everyone's mercy and I hate it." His hands are shaking, the pencil moving like a record needle— up and down and up and down— in his weak grasp. Dream wants to steady it but can't, hasn't been able since Quackity's first visit, and he hates that too. His body isn't his anymore. It's a malfunctioning tool, but there's no fixing it. No quick repair. There's no fixing him.

Nothing can cure him, not potions, not time, not XD. He's broken, plain and simple. And all that's left is crossed wires.

A hand lays over his own and Dream looks up into Techno's eyes. His hand still tremors underneath the warm grasp, but it hurts less, now.

"You're not helpless, Dream. You're not. You're just changed, and I know that hurts. And I know I can't fix that but let me make it a little easier for you." His voice chokes on the last syllable, the emotion making it crack.

Sweat pools on the back of Dream's neck as he quickly adverts his eyes. A million thoughts run through his head, seeing Techno's care so plainly on display. He can't bring himself to pull away though.

"I don't get it." It's an admission he wouldn't make normally, but Dream wants to understand at least this about Techno, if nothing else. "You've more than repaid the favor, you don't owe me anything anymore."

"Yes, I do." Techno says, so quietly Dream is half convinced he didn't hear it at all, before Techno continues as if he hadn't said anything to begin with. "When are we just going to admit we're friends, Dream? We can be that to each other, you know."

Now, he does pull away, just barely. Their hands touch still, if only slightly, and the contact burns.

"Fine," Techno speaks, not with anger or frustration. "I'm doing it because I'm selfish. I like having you around, and keeping you healthy makes that easier. Not to mention you're skinny enough to be one of Phil's scarecrows. We can hang you out in the fields and you'd scare all the crows off, nice and easy. That's why I'm doing this, for the good of my crops."

Dream furiously ignores Techno's smug smile when that draws a laugh out of him, but it doesn't get rid of the pit in his stomach. Dream knows what happens to his friends.

He doesn't want that for Techno.

@rat-rosemary

Hi sorry I lost the ask because i wanted to fix something

“I love faceless dream! Like where it is a void behind his mask” (it went something like that)

Couldn't decide if I wanted prison dream or normal so get both lol

As always send me how you see cdreams design and I'll draw it (eventually)

He broke Dream out of Pandora's Vault just so he could keep making homeless jokes

cDream feeing lost in a snowstorm and wishing he had cTechnos cape or cPhils wings, lying cold and scared on the freezing snow until they find him and rush him back inside for warmth

not that techno and phil regret living in the arctic, per se, but protecting a little human is much harder when a few minutes outside could kill him. they'd be worried sick, sifting their hands through snowbanks in case he was already buried beneath one. imagine techno digging and making contact with a little human hand, wearing an old pair of phils gloves. maybe he's been passed out there, maybe he buried himself for some protection from the wind. either way techno is panicking and yelling for phil.

Rivals Duo Prompt Week

Day 4 : Thawing Out / Beginning

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?

Jailbreak