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Pandora's Vault Archive
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c!sam didn't slept much when he was the warden often resulting in him falling asleep in the prison.
The Poor guys sleep deprived
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And they became roommates
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tw / pet death
look i know we named the dog and are now Emotionally Attached, but don’t think about how c!dream was hiding in the little hole, how he could hear c!sam getting closer and closer, until he could hear the warden kill arlo within seconds of meeting her, and then immediately after find where he’s hiding :(
anon, you give me angst, i give you a plethora of angst in return :))
warnings: animal death, c!dream angst, c!sam crit / neg
“I’m not naming the dog.” It comes out more annoyed and more terse than he means it to. Techno, who has by now become somewhat of a self-proclaimed expert in All Things Dream, says nothing. Dream can hear his eyebrow raise and expectant silence.
But he has nothing to explain to him. Knuckles bloodied and cracked from chipping away at the obsidian, hands numb from pain, Dream keeps his eyes focused on the black block in front of him, and resolutely doesn’t think of his cat. The cat.
…Hope. He doesn’t think of Hope, because he already knows the effects it will have on him: has mourned Hope for long enough, and doesn’t dare do so in front of someone else, even someone he trusts.
Dream doesn’t think of Hope. Doesn’t think of Hope, doesn’t think of the dog, definitely doesn’t name the dog in his mind long after Techno had fallen silent.
Arlo, he thinks, and for a second, he’s surprised he doesn’t pick a name with a little more symbolism. But then he thinks to all of Techno’s stories — to their long conversations about mythology and villainy and what it means to be one — and he thinks he understands.
Arlo. It’s just a normal name. Arlo the Dog could belong to anyone: and Dream, in this scenario, can just be a guy with a dog.
Just a guy. His hands throb painfully, but he hits the wall with a little more resolve. Techno has promised to get them out of here. Dream thinks of Arlo, hears her happy little bark from in the cell, and makes a silent promise to get Arlo out too.
.
“Name the dog,” Techno suggests to Quackity, and Dream, pressed against the wall, fears the worst when Quackity turns to face him. “I asked Dream to, but he refused for some reason.”
The reason is Hope, and Dream tenses when Quackity hums, shears in hand. Because he knows Quackity, perhaps better than anyone — he has seen the very worst parts of Quackity that the prison brings out tenfold, has seen him decay in front of him into the shadow of the idealist he’d invited on to his server all those months ago, and knows Quackity, maybe more than anyone, is capable of unending cruelty.
“Rat,” Quackity decides, reaching out a hand and patting the dog a little awkwardly, and Dream stares. Stares, because Rat is Bad’s dog, which means this is funny, and stares, because Quackity is petting a dog, his dog, and hasn’t killed her.
Something unclenches in his chest, hardly daring to make noise. Quackity doesn’t touch a hair on the dog’s head, doesn’t even seem to be considering it, and Dream remembers, the memory half faded, how fond Quackity had been of animals.
Is. Still is. Quackity loves animals, clearly — Dream feels hope spark inside him. Hope rears its head in his mind, even when Quackity is hurting them, even when Quackity is demanding the book, because as long as Techno isn’t dead, and as long as Arlo isn’t dead, then hope lives on.
And then Techno disappears. And Dream, in his mad, mad panic, does the only thing he can consider doing.
He hides.
.
It’s dark, in the hole. The sirens are too loud, driving any rational thoughts from his mind, and it’s a struggle to breathe, a struggle not to just curl up and sob, a struggle to stay even moderately functional, but Dream tries.
Don’t come into the cell, he thinks, uselessly, ducking his head to keep his name tag hidden, don’t come into the cell, don’t come into the cell.
Like an avenging angel answering a call, Sam does exactly that.
Dream has never cowered to anyone — not even to Quackity, not properly, not without doing it only to stroke his ego to try and get an easier torture — but he cowers now, wraps his arms around him and pretends he’s okay. Sam is a lot of things. Sam had been a lot of things, and now he’s a lot of other things that Dream is terrified of.
And he’s in the cell. He’s going to see him.
Dream doesn’t even consider he’ll see Arlo first.
The dog’s whimper is the first thing that catches his attention.
And then, horrified, unable to move, unable to stop him, Dream hears Sam kill her, sighing regretfully as he does it, as if he’d had no choice, as if someone, something, had forced his hand. Dream clamps a hand over his mouth, takes a ragged breath that he doesn’t quite register, eyes flying open and gazing forwards because what else can he do?
Hope, Arlo, they blend into one.
Sam drops down into the hole, and yells his name.
When Dream responds with a shriek of no!, it’s not for himself as much as he wishes it had been — it’s for Hope, it’s for Arlo, and it comes far too late.
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is this anything
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you might as well have had the knife in your hand…this is justice (february 2022)
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Something about snakes
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i drew the sketch for this in april so its a bit outdated and i dont even know if it makes sense but i decided to finish it anyway
as a treat
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Vengeance will taste sweet.
I like to think that Techno would be livid under his guise and the fire will burn slow in the quiet hour of the prison.
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Dream in armour
oh, Samy Wammy! There's no time to cry over spoiled milk 🥰 You have a visit with the eye doctor! 😊
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new home
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Sooo... how about that reveal that c!Sam wasn’t feeding c!Dream? I mean, we all knew it was coming, but still. The auto food dispenser probably broke or smtg bc when c!Sam came down, c!Dream asked if he was there to give them potatoes. (Also with him being shaken up by learning c!Tommy is alive, c!Sam might not remember or care to feed c!Dream, who has none of his stores of potatoes left.) So, assuming the dispenser is broken and he doesn’t know, why would he come down in the first place? 🟩⛏?
hello anon !! yeah that reveal ,, dang, we already knew that c!sam had presumably been starving c!dream, but to see not only c!dream but c!sam confirm it as well as it having lasted AT LEAST a week ,, d a n g . they are Not pulling any punches in this arc (which, i mean, judging on the q stream, isnt exactly surprising anymore,, but still)
in the prison guard stream, we see how the dispenser works - it’s not automatic as much as it’s remote, as c!sam or the prison guards still need to press a button in order to dispense food. he also says “i havent even been around to feed the prisoner” or something along those lines in tommy’s stream, so we can conclude that the decision to deprive c!dream of food after c!tommy’s death is INTENTIONAL,, which i mean. again. yikes.
anyway, here’s a snippet of c!dream finding out that the “automatic” feeder isnt as automatic as he might’ve thought - here, the dispenser + crying obsidian are installed at around the same time, so it’s between bad and sapnap’s visit
tw: starvation, disordered eating, abuse, mental illness, self-hatred, toxic relationship, gaslighting, disturbing imagery, dark content, c!sam/warden!sam critical (again, be careful with the content warnings)
Dream stares up at the hole in the obsidian, barely able to make out a glint of metal in the dark chute. The dispenser, just as expected, doesn’t respond to his glare, refuses to whir and click in the way that indicates food, and Dream bites his tongue, mumbles curses under his breath.
“Prick,” he blows a breath through his gritted teeth, only more irrationally angry when the dispenser, as expected, ignores him. “Some automatic dispenser, Warden.”
The walls don’t respond. Nothing responds, here, besides the dark dark thoughts swirling in his brain, and he thinks he’d prefer it if those didn’t - or maybe he doesn’t, because company is company, even if said company is the same litany of blood anger revenge pain you deserve this you deserve all of this you have destroyed the world now lie in the bed you have made pounding at the base of his skull. He drags his hand down his face; every minute is an hour, and every hour is a minute. Time has no meaning when your only frame of reference is eternity.
Even so, even he can tell that it’s been a long time since he’s had food, even by his usual standards - several days, at least, because the ever-present ache of hunger in his gut had swelled into something angrier, demanding, no longer as easy to ignore. Another stabbing round of pain nearly sends him to his knees, and just as he always he does, he clings to the feeling, gathers it into his hands, grabs it by the edges and directs the sharp edges into the words he spits at the indifferent walls. Let the Warden hear him - what can he possibly do?
Just as it always does, the fury in him peters out, drains, leaves him alone in the middle of his cell. He sinks the ground, arms wrapped around his stomach; a part of him wants to laugh at the irony. Some people think of silence as emptiness, void; he knows now that it’s anything but. Silence is suffocating, thick, so present that anything he says seems to get lost within it seconds after leaving his mouth. It grows and pushes into his limbs, becomes a weight tied around his throat, expands into the air in his lungs like a slowly inflating balloon until it’s pressed into every corner and space of the cell, every corner and space of him, taking up so much room that he can hardly breathe around it.
The hunger hollows him out, and the silence fills the space that’s left; Dream wonders how much more there is for him to lose before he’s completely empty, just a husk filled with the same liquid misery that drips down the walls. He wonders if anyone would care- laughs. As if.
“Dream.” The intercom crackles; Dream perks up at the voice, spine straightening against his will, and his hands tighten into fists as he realizes - prime, how pathetic is he, now? The voice deepens, becomes more insistent. “Prisoner.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Or maybe I’m not; you better come and check, yeah?” A humorless smile tugs at his lips, and a static-filled sigh comes through the speaker.
“This isn’t the time for games, Dream.”
Dream rolls his eyes. It’s not exactly the time to be a dick, either, but you don’t see me complaining. A flutter of something warm, joyful, rises in his chest at the sound of something- someone, other than his own voice, and he strangles it with a hand wrapped around his own throat - he won’t let them break him, won’t let himself become desperate enough to crave the attention of a man that hates him - he won’t- he can’t-
“Do you need something? Or were you yelling at the wall for no reason again?” Sam’s voice is steely, indifferent, on a knife’s edge between apathy and anger. “Don’t waste my time, prisoner.”
Dream bites down the snarky reply sitting on his tongue, breathes in, out through his nose until the fury is no longer blinding.
“Your fancy automatic jig is broken. The potato one. It’s not- working.” The hunger fogs his mind, makes it hard to think. He feels caged and weak and pathetic and he hates it.
“That’s because it’s not automatic.” Footsteps echo on the speakers, Dream tapping along to the rhythm before he realizes and stops himself, and a moment later the familiar whirring and clicking of the metal box comes from behind him and a small pile of potatoes fall down and splash into the water. “There. Is that all?”
Dream feels the fury rise, again, but doesn’t quite to keep the words back, this time.
“So what was the point of the whole automatic feeder, asshole? You’ve changed nothing! What’s the difference between that thing and you coming over to my cell besides that you’ve wasted a couple stacks of redstone? Congratu-fucking-lations, you’re a goddamn genius-”
“It’s remote now, so I don’t have to come into your cell.”
“Oh, so it’s just the good ol’ Warden looking for more ways to make the prisoner suffer, huh? Should’ve figured, you fucking self-righteous prick-”
“Dream.”
His mouth shuts with a click, a flash of fear searing through his muscles, white-hot, and by the time he’s blinked back the ringing in his ears the silence has stolen all the words from him, once again. Pathetic, he screams in his head, but his jaw remains firmly locked in place - the Warden’s won, per usual, and they both know it.
“Is that all?” He sounds impatient. Part of Dream wants nothing more than to never hear his voice again, and the other half of him rails at the idea of being alone with his thoughts once more. All of him hates himself, and all of him hates the silence; they’re the only two constants in this place. “You’ll have to speak up if you want anything.”
“How- long was it, since you last gave food?”
Static for a moment, then another. “It’s only been about a day.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’d know if you took care of your clock instead of destroying it, prisoner.”
“I’d know if you were less of a fucking prick.”
“Behave, and you might get it replaced.” The Warden’s breathing is harsh, almost labored - he must be angrier than Dream thought, then. “Speaking of which, you won’t be getting any for a day after this stunt.”
“Ooh, I’m so scared. It’s not like you don’t do this - what, every other day?”
“Do you want food or not?”
Dream’s teeth grind against each other; he breathes in, out. He hates this, hates the potatoes, hates the Warden, hates himself. Hates the way that a part of him recoils at the thought of making the Warden angry at him, reaches desperately for a chance to earn his clock- his approval. Attachments are weakness, he tells his traitorous heart, knowing that it, as always, will fail to stay away.
“Yes. Thank you.” The pleasantry burns on his tongue, tastes worse than the bitterness of raw potatoes that seems to be the only thing it knows, anymore.
“Good-bye, prisoner. Don’t make me come into the cell.”
The intercom cuts off with a click, the space that the static made immediately filled by silence. Dream watches it blankly, jaw sore from how tight it had been clenched, and begins to work his way through the first potato, nibbling at the pale flesh just enough to tide over the worst of the pain.
This is fine, he tells himself, and the walls stare at him impassively. He’s not sure they believe him.
He’s not sure how much longer he can believe himself.
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Sad prison guy :(
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great achievements
my piece for the @technoblade-first-try-challenge
my prompt was: technoblade braiding his hair
highly inspired by this post
/dsmp /rp
——
Dream shifted uncomfortably beneath the heavy cape. It was too hot to wear inside the cell, if he were being completely honest with himself, but the weight and coverage granted the illusion of safety. “Illusion” was the key word here; he wasn’t safe. Not here, not with anyone.
Yet, Technoblade sat behind him, carefully twisting his long hair into a delicate braid and then curling it within itself, making something of an updo. A few hours ago, he had Dream crouched over the cauldron and washed through the matted strands the best he could, and then he waited for it dry while occasionally combing through it with his fingers. Once that was done, he sat Dream down and did his best to put it into a style that won’t get mangled again.
Keep reading
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You have the most powerful person in the dsmp, now what?
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More axolotl hybrid Dream! He’s not having a good time at the Pandora’s vault. No one does
Thank you for all the support ! I’m blow away by the positive reception, I’m grateful! The axolotl hybrid Dream propaganda is just starting :)
Prison angst
Part 1 //
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Suspicion
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Incredibly angsty idea: since we don’t know every last detail of c!Quackity’s torture of c!Dream in the prison (like, yes, there were tools and maiming and lots of blood, but it’s not like we got an exact play-by-play of months-worth of in-universe torture), I would consider it to be very, very possible that c!Quackity absolutely played on c!Dream’s fear of being alone.
Look. c!Dream didn’t exactly keep it subtle that he craved any kind of social interaction at all - from burning his clocks to keep c!Sam coming back, to the way he behaved with his visitors, etc. there’s no way that c!Quackity didn’t pick up on it. And abuse that knowledge.
Maybe he showed up and just ignored c!Dream entirely, acting like c!Dream wasn’t there at all. Just put down a block to sit on, started messaging people on his communicator like it was everyday Las Nevadas business, and totally blanked on the words of the man he chained to the wall last night. That man isn’t there. He doesn’t exist.
c!Dream is relieved - at first. But after a few days, completely alone, alone in the worst way, alone in the sense that he is not actually alone but he might as well be for all the acknowledgement he gets, he’s…
It’s not good.
Perhaps it even gets to the point where c!Quackity messes with c!Dream’s sense of reality. Acts as though not only does he not know c!Dream is there, but that c!Dream never existed in the first place.
We know that intercom systems are canonical technology to the DSMP as the prison has one, so why can c!Quackity not have verbal conversations through his communicator (or pretend to have) where c!Dream is forced to hear a one-sided conversation of everyone’s lives without him - of DSMP historical events referenced in such a way that censors c!Dream’s existence from them entirely.
It starts out subtle, but becomes slowly undeniable that c!Quackity is building a world that c!Dream is exempt from completely. c!Dream picks up on it, thinks that such would never work - he knows he’s real, that his life is - but here’s the thing about the human brain: if you tell it a lie enough times, it will start to perceive it as truth. If you tell it it’s remembering wrong, eventually it will start to alter its own recollection.
This is why gaslighting works, this is how cults gain such influence over people; by slowly changing the world around them until they can no longer remember that it originally looked any other way.
And Dream’s not exactly in a position where he can touch base with objective reality - the outside world, something c!Sam and c!Quackity haven’t touched and have minimal influence in - anymore, is he?
(“Look at me,” Dream begs, quietly. See me. Acknowledge me. I am here, I’m here, I swear I am.
Quackity smiles. “Why would I?” he asks, speaking to Dream for the first time in weeks. His smile is nasty as he says, softly, “You don’t exist, and no one misses you; you’re nothing.”
“I am not nothing,” Dream protests, hope rising in his heart as suddenly the focus of Quackity looking at him shudders across his body like flames. It means pain, he knows it does, but -
But is pain not preferrable to inexistence?
“Oh, Dream,” Quackity says, disappointedly. “Oh, Dream, Dream, Dream. But you are. No one even thinks to visit; they’ve all forgotten you. That’s how little you meant, how small a presence you were in their lives. Face it: I’m the only one who cares enough to come here.” Quackity walks over to Dream slowly, every step methodical. “Even Sam put everything on automatic, right? So he didn’t have to look at you. But look at me, Dream.”
Dream looks at him. Where else is there to look?
Quackity rests a gentle palm on Dream’s exposed cheek, nails scratching a little at long-dried blood. “You only exist here, in my world, Dream,” he whispers. “You’re mine now.”
—
“Dream?” Punz asks, frowning. They reach out, but Dream shrinks from their touch, eyes a bit wild in the sunlight glinting off the snow.
“… Punz?” Dream replies, swallowing.
“Yes?” Punz responds instantly. “What is it, what’s wrong? Do you need more supplies?”
Dream’s fingers tremble. “This is - this is real, right? You remember me?”
What the fuck. “Of course I do,” Punz says, carefully. “You’re a bit unforgettable, Dream.” Then, comfortingly, “And this is real, you’re out, you’re never going back there.” Punz won’t let him, not after this, they swear. Fuck the plan of using it as a base, because whatever this is, it’s not going to ever be helped by that fucking box.
“Good,” Dream says, tight, his green eyes still flicking up and down Punz, drinking them in, like if he doesn’t memorise them they’ll vanish into nothingness before him. “Good. I… I just - I just wanted to check.”)
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