sixteenth-day-event
The Sixteenth Day Event
A Dream SMP-themed event celebrating the 16th day of the month!
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The Body: Coughing Up Blood
When Quackity found out about Dream disease he’s begin trying a fun activity :)
@sixteenth-day-event
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threw this together dudududu @sixteenth-day-event
for the slipping sanity prompt ;p
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the mind: slipping sanity
Karl, his mind, and the law of the universe.
I'm not done yet with @sixteenth-day-event's angst month. I wrote a c!Karl-centric drabble and had a lot of fun with it! I hope y'all enjoy <3
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Ok, I recently wrote an essay [here] talking about the definition and duties of civil engineering as well as the ethics because of the brain rot @swordfright gave me with calling Dream Sam’s ultimate engineering project. So, because I actually am a civil engineer I took it upon myself to design the title and summary of quantities sheets just like I do at work for roads but with Dream as the project instead. And in honor of angst day sponsor by @sixteenth-day-event, I figured I’d share it because I feel like it kinda works for the prison of the mind prompt.
“Sam’s “ultimate engineering project” he deemed too damaged like a bumpy road or crumbling building that wasn’t worthy of patching and filling in the cracks or reinforcing, that’s too eroded to be fixed and preserved. So, Sam strived to tear him down to the bedrock so he could remake, remold, and reengineer Dream according to his design for the common safety, public health and well-fair.”
{These are very similar to the actual sheets I make day to day, which I shall not share for the sake of doxing my location, but yea pretty much everything has a significance. Some of it doesn’t necessarily make sense but that was because I was more so taking inventory of what we see in lore (so you know I counted ;) lol)}
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@sixteenth-day-event
Prompts: twisting the knife + a silent grave
(fic under the cut)
Sam is dead.
His corpse is propped up stiffly against the black wall, on the other side of the lava dividing them both. On one side, the prisoner, screaming and begging and bleeding out for the entertainment of a man with a gold toothed grin and a seemingly infinite amount of silky white dress shirts. On the other, his warden, not listening.
There's a knife stuck in his side as he lies there on his back with Quackity on top of him. His own sobs fall into background noise, mere set-dressing. The lava swirls and bubbles before him. Sam is on the other side. Suddenly that's all he can think about. Sam is on the other side, dead.
The warden's skin is pale and gray – he hasn't seen the sun in months, stalks the prison as a ghost does a haunted house – and his eye sockets are deep and dark as night. His hair is falling out. When he touches Dream, his hands are cold.
He never does anything at all.
"Who's gonna stop me?" Quackity taunts – twists the knife in one brutal jerk that rips a scream from Dream's hoarse throat. A tear rolls down his face. He can't breathe, for – "Who's gonna fucking stop me?"
The only man who could stop this monster of both of their creation is dead in the other room.
How long, Dream asks – the gods above, his own fate, whatever vague and unknowable thing men pray to when they can't think for themselves, when they are at their most hopeless and lost – will it take for this accursed cell to become his coffin as well?
It's not a question he would ever think, once. Back then in the sunlight, he had designed the prison as a safe harbor from the tumultuous, crashing waves of ever-present fear, the sea air clogging his lungs. He was desperate. It was his oasis, his escape route. His island of Calypso. The only place he could be safe – Sam wouldn't let anyone kill him. He had bet his life on that certainty.
The Sam he knew is dead on the other side of a wall of lava. Dream might be dead as well, or just barely clinging to the life that poured out of him with every slash of a blade or snap of rope against his skin. Every condescending sigh, every slap or hunger pang, or lies, a gentler form of torment that were crueler because of their subtlety. Unspeakable things had happened to him in that cell – and yet, he still lived?
No. He must be a ghost.
How many times had he thrown himself carelessly into lava? How many times had he passed out, bleeding profusely on the obsidian floor? How many times had he been told he should be dead?
He didn't remember much, now. He could have easily given up the Revival Book in some agonized, delirious haze. He would've died – he would no longer have been useful alive. He could no longer predict what Sam would or wouldn't do.
"You know how to make all of this stop, Dream."
Dream is silent.
He knows the game by now. He knows the lines, repeated over and over until they whisper in his ears even when he's completely alone. He knows they're just playacting. There is no paradise waiting for him. If Quackity gets his hands on the Book, then Dream will truly be dead, deader than he is already. He will go to Limbo. And he will never escape. Punz will not save him. Dream can't trust anyone. He can't trust even his oldest friends – did Sapnap not threaten to kill him? Has George ever even visited him, blessed Dream with some kinder presence? No. Everyone hates him, for he is a monster, the minotaur captured in a labyrinth of his own design –
Or perhaps this is already his limbo. He can't imagine a fate worse than this. It would be fitting, for his personal hell to be so like his living existence that he couldn't tell the difference between them.
He hates himself, too, in this cell. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, not even Sam who had seen so many of his vulnerable places. He hates the undead thing he is. He hates how dreamlike everything is – he's stopped even trying to count the days; he did, once, but then Sam started skipping meals, and Quackity started coming twice in one day every once in a while, and he didn't have a clock by then anyway. He lost count. Time died with him. But then, he spent both his days and nights screaming and bleeding and passed out on the floor, and there was nothing to look forward to, until the day that someone came to let him out and that he couldn't do anything about. What was the point of counting, anyway?
He hates that he's given up.
Sometimes, he puts his fingertips to his neck, just to feel his heart beating. He sleeps with one hand pressed to his chest to feel his breath rising and falling with each breath. He screams just to feel the vibrations in his throat. All of it could just be another lie – some charade made up by his subconscious mind to torture him further. Funny, that the man once best known by others for his mask and his web of lies and manipulations is now completely trapped by the lies of everyone around him. He's helpless, here. He knows nothing.
"You deserve this, you know that? You fucking deserve this."
He's lying.
"That's the only reason I'm here. Because you need to be fucking punished, Dream. You need someone to put you in your place."
He's lying.
But when he finally leaves, Dream doesn't complain to Sam. He doesn't say anything at all. He lays there, a silent body in a silent grave.
Sam's hands are as stiff and cold as ice despite the lava just behind him. You're not dead until you're warm and dead. Dream clings to that hope - that it's just the cold around them that has paralyzed them both. Someday they might see the warmth of the sun again, and then they could be friends again. The world could be perfect again.
Sam's breath smells like formaldehyde.
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@sixteenth-day-event prompt: slipping sanity
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a small drabble for @sixteenth-day-event with the prompt "a silent grave"
tw for implied/referenced torture because, well, torture box, y'know? also potential slight suicide ideation
Sleep in Pandora’s Vault is fleeting, coming in flashes, quick increments that leave Dream more dazed and restless than before. It’s never an escape—even in his bursts of sleep, the incessant dripping of the crying obsidian plays the role of a backing symphony, and the ache of his body never leaves him for a moment. He’s never sure how long the sleep lasts—the last clock he burnt still hasn’t been replaced—but with how tired he feels, he can’t imagine it’s that long.
Before, he used to shift around between his moments of slumber. He’d walk up and wander around the cell, settling down in a different corner as if searching for a more comfortable spot. Now, though, his vision swims as rushes of vertigo overcome him whenever he tries to sit up, let alone walk around. He definitely got a head injury of some sorts a few visits ago, and not even healing potions provide an instant fix to those. But, even before he became afflicted with light-headedness, the prospect of moving lost all appeal, considering how his entire body flares with pain at any sort of motion. So, he stays still, even as the jagged obsidian digs into his back, aggravating the wounds there.
Sometimes, rarely, he’s granted true sleep, and he dreams. The dreams are never pleasant—it’s as though his mind only wishes to cycle through a few dreams, including recounts of sir’s visits, that day in the attachment vault, George and Sapnap, and more. Most of the time, he’s unaware that he’s dreaming, but this time he finds himself in the one dream he’s always lucid for.
He’s sitting beside a small, unremarkable grave, unable to move, as though he were tethered to it. It’s always silent. Not even the creatures of the world venture close, and it makes something perhaps akin to bitterness coil in his heart, that even the animals of his world that had been his steady companions don’t bother to visit him in death.
But, all things considered, it’s not the worst dream. Sure, the laughter of his friends the server members that echo from outside his vision grate on him, and their obvious joy in the world post-his demise is unsurprising but stings nonetheless, but it’s not painful. It’s not limbo nor Pandora, and sure he can’t feel the sun, and he’s not entirely sure his mind is conjuring the apparitions of the sky and trees correctly, but it’s still peaceful, in a way. He thinks if death were like this, maybe solving its mysteries wouldn’t be such a necessity.
And when he awakes to the sound of pistons, he thinks that maybe spending eternity in a silent grave wouldn’t be so bad.
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the body: slowing the spread
The first thing that I thought of when I saw this prompt for @sixteenth-day-event was the scene where Hannah culled her pets to slow the spread of the Egg. I thought a video game inspired scene fit the small canvas that I'm practicing pixel art on :D
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Here's my piece for the Sixteenth Day Event! My prompt for Angst Month is The Mind: Slipping Insanity
@sixteenth-day-event
I'm not the most proud of it but I didn't have time to restart
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sixteenth day event - coughing up blood, slowing the spread
drabble, WC 750
TW: blood
obligatory @sixteenth-day-event tag so they can find it :)
As the dust settles
“You forgot your dang mask again!”
Sam jolts up. Only years of practice keep his hands steady as the surprise of hearing Ponk’s voice in the otherwise silent cave makes the rest of his body rock. Carefully, he sets his pouch of finely ground redstone dust on the ground, a good distance from where Sam had been pouring out intricate but exact redstone lines. He turns to face the other.
“I hadn’t noticed”, Sam admits. He draws himself up to full height, towering over the smaller human. Ponk pulls back their cape a bit to make it easier to reach their pack. They set it down carelessly, and Sam winces. It lands too close for comfort, right next to his delicate work. “Careful, please”, he quietly asks of the human.
Ponk scoffs. “Oh, I’ve noticed this, don’t you worry your head. Don’t you worry about it”, they say, scuffing the ground with their foot. Dust raises up, but Sam doesn’t see any of the red powder raise with it. Still, he grimaces.
The human shuffles things around in their pack, before pulling out Sam’s ventilated mask. The hybrid is just about to go over to take it from them, when Ponk unceremoniously tosses it in his direction. He only just manages to catch it, fumbling with it for a second but managing to secure it before it slips out of his hands.
“Thank you.”
“You better wear that thing the next time I’m coming down here, Sam. I know what this stuff does to you, and I don’t want to know what else could happen to you.” Ponk glares at him. “And don’t you forget it again.”
Sam smiles at the human. The way they show they care about him is so endearing. They always hide behind anger and annoyance, but Sam knows that in reality, the human just doesn’t know how to express themselves better.
“I’m sorry. I will make sure I have my mask next time.”, Sam promises softly. He makes a note to leave the mask hanging on his door the next time he returns home, so he might see it before he heads out again.
“You better.” Ponk scowls at him again. “What are you making down here anyways?”
Sam puts on the mask under the watchful gaze of the human. Ponk’s eyes narrow as he adjusts the way the mask sits over his nose and mouth, but then they relax when Sam finally finishes. “It’s just something I thought about last night. I had this idea, and I wanted to try it out. I think I have an idea that, if it works, can be used in the prison.” Sam picks up his redstone pouch again as he explains.
As so often, Ponk looks uncomfortable with this topic. “Okay, well. I’ll leave you to it then. Wear the dang mask!”
Sam watches with a hidden smile as the human picks up his pack again, more careful this time, and leaves. He keeps standing there for a minute or two, just listening to the retreating footsteps that he had previously completely missed. And only when he can’t hear the human anymore does he let his body relax - and with it his lungs start to cramp. He begins coughing, a scratching sensation spreads in his chest. Quickly he rips off the mask again and tosses it aside. It’s already too late, he knows this. The redstone had already settled in his lungs, filling up the vessels and gone into his blood. He can feel it all over his body, the tingling electricity shooting up and down his veins, through his nerves and every receptor. There’s no use in wearing a mask anymore other than to make Ponk happy.
Well, maybe there is one more benefit to it, he thinks as the coughs make him double over, directly onto the redstone connections he’d laid out all morning. His redstone pouch spills over, and the dust rains down onto his work, ruining it. Red fluid splatters out of his mouth and onto the smooth stone floor beneath him, and he’s not sure if it’s blood or wet redstone. It could be either. It could be both. But whatever it is, it filled his lungs up more often when he’s not wearing his mask.
Okay, he promises himself, he’ll wear this mask more, just so his lungs wouldn’t fill up as often. But for now, all of the fluid needs out first. And then, he’ll have to redo all his work from the morning.
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CW/TW: blood
@sixteenth-day-event - Words like ice
Thinking that this is around the time Dream kind of gave up on trying to prove his intentions and gave in to the role as the villain the server viewed him as :(
I kind of maybe forgot abt sixteenth and then made this in lile 2 hours???... i dont even know how... anyway im gonna go sleep now. Aorry id the text doesnt make sense im tireddd this was not planneddd
Version without text cause i like that one too:
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sixteenth day event - slipping sanity
drabble, WC 860
TW: hallucinations, getting in dangerous situations caused by hallucinations
I might get another prompt filled in today, depending on how things go this evening!
obligatory @sixteenth-day-event tag so they can find it :)
Slipping Away
Laughter echoes down the staircase leading up to George's rooms. While in theory, that would be nothing to worry about, after weeks and weeks of this, Karl worries.
Karl has seen the other man one too many times talking to nobody and laughing at nothing to not worry. So with the laughter in his ears, he mentally prepares himself, drawing in a deep breath and squaring off his shoulders, while he climbs up the wide staircase.
Karl knocks the door, but there is no answer, just more laughter from inside. With a sigh, he slides open the door and takes a look around. George is not in his living room, but he can see him through the open door to his bedroom. He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, facing away from Karl, towards the balcony. The door there is open, letting in the warm outside air with a breeze, the wispy curtains swinging softly in the wind.
“Hey George”, he calls for the other man's attention. Predictably, he doesn’t get noticed.
Karl lets the door fall shut behind him and makes his way over to George’s bedroom. George is still laughing, his body curled over his updrawn knee as peals of laughter are drawn out of him.
“What’s so funny in here?”, Karl asks, loud enough to be heard over the amusement this time.
George stops short as his head whips around to face him.
George gasps for a breath. “Come on, tell him!”, he demands, his hand waving towards Karl. But it is clear it’s not him George is speaking to, as George’s head quickly swivels back towards the balcony.
Karl forces a smile. “Yeah, somebody enlighten me what’s so funny here.”
George looks at him, frowning. “Well that was rude.”, he comments. Then, his head turns back towards the balcony. Not unlike a dog, his head tilts as he pays rapt attention, and another giggle starts shaking through his body.
“Right.”, Karl says. He bites his lip as he tries to think of how to break this. “Hey, you wanna go down to the lake?”, he suggests.
After a bit more giggling, George waves him away. “Not right now. Maybe another time. We’ll let you know.”
“Right”, Karl repeats. Because what else is there to say? He’s not getting through to George right now. He’ll come back later and try again.
----
Sapnap paces the yard. Karl told him all about how George is slowly losing it. It’s freaking him out. He’s not sure how to handle the situation at all, his best friend having.. hallucinations? Invisible friends? A way too active imagination? Not, not that one, Sapnap scoffs. There is something wrong with George, and it’s making him anxious, so it’s by law now his problem. And he hates having to deal with problems that center around his best friends.
The problem is, and Sapnap is pretty sure of this, that this is somehow also all Dream’s fault. Somehow, that man is causing problems, even while he’s locked up in Pandora's Vault. And Sapnap, once again, doesn’t know how to fix it. He can’t just take George and shake him until he’s all better again. Actually - he might try that one. Couldn’t hurt, right? George is already exhibiting some sort of brain damage.
Okay, no. That was mean. He’s just - talking to people that aren’t there. Okay. Maybe it wasn’t the worst solution out there. Ugh, this whole situation has him losing his mind, too!
He glances up the tall building to where George’s rooms are. The other man is standing on the balcony, his hands on the railing, but his head tilted to the side. Looking at someone that’s not fucking there. Sapnap can see him talking and laughing and nodding his head. And then - oh shit, George climbs *onto* the railing! Fuck, shit damnit - Sapnap grabs an enderpearl from his belt and throws it up. He lands with a heavy thunk on the balcony, and he’s sure that he’s twisted his ankle, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. He practically throws himself at George, his arms around the other man in a heartbeat. “George!”, he cries in outrage. “What the fuck are you doing?”
George just looks at him like he’s stupid. “What do you mean? We’re taking in the view, obviously!”
“Well, do that with both feet on the ground - on this side!”, he scolds the older man as he pulls him firmly back onto the landing. Then, he snaps, and turns to the side George had talked to before. Sternly, he tells the air: “And you. Stop giving him such stupid ideas. Go away.”
George gasps, and pushes Sapnap aside. “Where did he go?”, he asks, his breath coming short.
“Hopefully far away. And never comes back”, Sapnap replies bitterly. He grabs hold of George's wrist then and pulls him back inside. “Come on. You’re not staying here anymore. You’re moving in with me.”
George stares at him in confusion. “What? I don’t understand-”, he protests weakly.
“Doesn’t matter.”, Sapnap grumbles as he leads him out of the building. “I’m not gonna let you out of my sight for a while, I think. And stop talking to that thing.”
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words like ice
speedran this one cos almost forgot abt the @sixteenth-day-event sob
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This is tomorrow!
Dream SMP Sixteenth Day Event: Angst Month!
This is a monthly event celebrating the Dream SMP's iconic 16th day of the month, this time under the theme of angst!
How to participate:
There are no sign-ups this time! Just use one of the nine prompts listed above to create a piece of art, writing, or something else—whatever you like! Please keep in mind that this is an event focused on the Dream SMP story and characters, although AUs are also welcomed.
On April 16th, post your work! Remember to @ this blog and use the tag #sixteenthdayevent so I can reblog anything you create!
Plain text prompts:
THE MIND
Slipping sanity
Prison of the mind
Words like ice
THE BODY
Twisting the knife
Slowing the spread
Coughing up blood
THE SOUL
A distant cry
A shattered heart
A silent grave
Good luck!
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Before the next event, I strongly encourage you to have a look back through some of the past contributions! They're a true display of just how much passion and skill this community has. Let people know that their work is loved!
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Just want to confirm but with the events, it's anything Dsmp related, right? Like AU’s or stuff like that or is it just the main storyline? Just wanted to know before I continue writing what I'm currently planning for this.
AUs are fine and welcome!
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