filamero

[filamero]

another dimension

you take me away from reality.

[filamero]

Jinx!

Word Count : 2.5k

Genre : Fluff

Warnings : n/a

Summary :

“But, my dear brother, if you ever need any help—”

“Leon’s got it!”

“—Leon’s go—wha? Huh?”

"Jinx!"

—

In which Leo gets jinxed, but maybe he's not that unlucky.

ao3 link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/44673367

[ fic below the cut! ]

Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Leo is definitely the fastest skater out of all his brothers. By a long shot, too.

There’s a considerable gap between him and his family as he rounds the corner of the path, wearing a bright grin as he looks back over his shoulder at his opponents. He counts a full three seconds before a flash of orange appears where he was moments ago, quickly followed by red, and then purple. Mikey, small as can be, navigates the turn easily, and though one wouldn’t expect it from Raph, he flies through smoother than ever. But Donnie—oh poor, poor, slightly less in touch with his motor control Donnie—wobbles, just shy of going flying into the water.

Leo can’t hold back his laugh, pushing his heel down on the tail of his board and slowing to a stop. He turns fully around to face his three brothers who catch the hint that the race has been paused. Though Mikey is clueless, Raph and Donnie share a knowing glance (the former wary and the latter embarrassed) just as Leo begins to speak.

“Come on, Don-Tron,” he grins, pushing ever-so-slightly to drift to his twin’s side. “You’ve gotta keep up with us better than that!”

Raph heaves out a sigh, crossing his arms. “Leo,” he warns subtly, shaking his head as Donnie deflates a little. “He’s jus’ being careful with his shell. Right, Donnie?”

Leo loops an arm around Donnie’s shoulders, pointing a thumb backward. “He’s got his fancy shell here to help! So what if he takes a small tumble? It’s learning!”

This time, Mikey cuts in. “But Pops says to be careful with Donnie! Always!”

At this, Leo only lets out an exaggerated groan, lulling his head back until he's resting against his own shell. “Dad’s just being a dad! Donnie’ll be fine, right D-Man?” he asks as he nudges his arm.

Donnie’s lower lip is curled in a way that betrays that he’s definitely embarrassed, shrugging Leo’s arm off of his shoulders. “I’m getting the hang of it,” he argues, though the rebuttal is all but a murmur and heard only by his twin brother. “Papa didn’t let me start skating until two weeks ago—you’ve been skating way longer than that.”

Leo makes a ‘psh’ noise, waving his hand dismissively. “Time shmime.” He pushes forward with his foot again, easily rolling to the front of the group as he had been before. “Skating is a gift, guys. A natural-born talent.”

Behind his back, Raph is staring at Leo with an expression that is never worn by someone who agrees with what’s coming out of his mouth. He rolls his eyes, to which Mikey snickers. And yet, the ordeal is unnoticed by Leo, continuing on his monologue of supposed greatness.

“Not everyone is blessed with the ability to be this good! I get that.” Leo rolls his shoulders back, lifting his chin in a victorious pose. It toes the line between confident and arrogant, his pride rolling off of him in golden waves of light. “It takes some people years to get to the level that they want to be at. Putting in hard work, practicing ‘till they’re all sweat and blood.” He jabs a finger into his own plastron, eyes fluttering shut (and thus, he misses the mischievous glint in his older brother’s eyes). “But, my dear brother, if you ever need any help—”

“Leon’s got it!”

“—Leon’s go—wha? Huh?”

Raph breaks out into a triumphant grin as Leo realizes that he spoke at the same time as his brother. The latter’s brain scrambles for the next thing to do; he knows this, he should know this!

“Jinx!”

The instant the word leaves Raph’s mouth, he takes off in the direction that they came from. Mikey eggs him on, clasping his hands over his mouth and letting out a long, ‘Ooooooh,’ ever his older brother’s hype-man in his hijinks. In the distance, the eldest Hamato calls out, “One!” and Leo finally remembers what to do.

He pushes against the ground with his foot (much harder this time), and though his pride won’t let him admit it, he overestimates his own force and nearly smacks onto the floor. He’s not even sure he’s ever started himself off that fast before, but he doesn’t think about it too much as he focuses on catching up to his brother. There’s a considerable gap between them, but he’s not going to let that stop him.

“Two!”

Eight seconds left, Leo thinks to himself as he kicks off the ground once more to speed up. The gap slowly closes, but still—it’s not enough. Raph is skating away with a purpose, and though Leo has his own, he just can’t seem to catch on. Sheesh, is he eating his own words, or what? How did he not see this coming?

Seconds three and four pass by in the blink of an eye, and Leo is starting to panic. Never once has any of them actually reached beyond ‘five’ in this silly little jinx game that they play, but here he is now, still very much behind his older brother as he calls out “Five!” in a near-infuriating, gleeful voice. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve never played outside of their home, within the comfort of knowing every getaway and shortcut like the back of his palm, or maybe it’s because Raph hasn’t slowed down like he normally does—but he is running out of time.

Raph suddenly swerves left instead of right—”Six!”—and it throws Leo off, bad. He instinctively goes right despite watching him do the complete opposite just moments before, stuck having to do a 180 in order to get on the right path once more. He loses seconds seven and eight to this mishap, and Spirits Above, this is the closest he’s ever been to ten in this game.

Though Leo’s beginning to grow tired from his efforts, Raph is annoyingly persistent, surging ahead with one last-ditch effort at escaping his younger brother (even if he clearly doesn’t need it) as he counts aloud, “Nine!” Leo forces in a breath, kicking off the ground with his own Hail Mary, reaching his arm out toward him.

Leo’s fingers just miss Raph’s arm as he reaches, “Ten!” and comes to an abrupt stop.

Panting, Leo stops himself a few inches in front of Raph. “That can’t count! You said the full phrase and I didn’t!” he argues in between gasps for air, hands on his knees.

“Up-up-up!” Raph tsks, wagging a finger in his younger brother’s direction. “We said ‘Leon’s’ at the same time, and according to my cal-ca-ma-lations, that counts as a jinx.” He lifts his head and stands with the same confidence that Leo bore earlier—man, talk about truly eating your own words—miming zipping his lips. “And you didn’t catch me, which means you gotta be quiet! Until someone says your name.”

Leo gapes, but he doesn’t try to argue. Rules are rules, he supposes; to make matters worse, he was the one who set that rule in the first place. Something to ‘up the stakes’ and ‘make the game more fun.’ If time travel were real, he would definitely choose to go back to that moment and slap himself silly for even coming up with the idea.

When Raph realizes that Leo truly isn’t going to talk, as promised, his eyes glow with the high of victory.

Leo lulls his head back, biting back an exasperated groan.

It’ll be fine. He just has to be silent for a few minutes. No problem at all.

—

It’s been more than a few minutes. Way more than a few minutes.

Somehow, somehow, his brothers have managed to avoid saying his name for the past couple hours.

Raph seems content with pointing at him to refer to him. Sometimes, he’ll make direct eye contact, and Leo can’t even pretend that he doesn’t realize that he means him, because he learned his stubbornness from somewhere. All he does is sit and wait—sometimes, he maneuvers around as Leo cranes his head around to avoid making eye contact to keep eye contact—until he gives in. Even his attempts at annoying his older brother into giving up haven’t worked, Raph settling on a glare until he drops whatever ‘genius’ plan he’s come up with.

Mikey just seems amazed that someone’s finally lost to the jinx game. He’s made no effort to say Leo’s name at all, hanging around him in silent (ironic, huh?) wonder that he hasn’t spoken a word since. Truth be told, Leo’s pretty sure that his baby brother genuinely believes that their eldest brother cast a curse on him barring him from speaking. And, well, he thinks that if you knew Mikey, you wouldn’t pop his bubble of imagination either.

And Donnie? Don-Tron? Donatello Hamato? His beloved twin?

He’s the smuggest about it. A part of his mind supposes that the treatment is fair, since, well, his predicament was instigated by him poking fun at his purple-clad brother. But there are some things that are just downright cruel, and it feels like his twin is trying to check all of them off. He keeps using words that are close to his name or almost saying his name, only to swerve last second and say something completely different. He’s always been amazed by Donnie’s vocabulary, but Spirits Above, just how extensive is it for him to have found a word for every instance that warrants his name being said?

Even Splinter, his good ol’ man, is no help. The man hardly remembers his name—or any of his brothers’, for that matter—on a daily basis. His strategy is Raph’s, but worse, because he doesn’t even realize that he’s taking part in this terrible, terrible game that his sons have made up. He thought he had tasted freedom earlier when he called him ‘Blue,’ but in a whopping, three-against-one vote, a consensus had been reached; colors don’t count.

Leo can’t remember the last time any of them have kept up a game for this long.

He’s less annoyed and frustrated now. He’s just tired.

His eyes are trained on the straw of his drink as he mindlessly stirs the orange juice given to him by the waiter. He can’t believe his brothers had the gall to order him veggie pizza or that his father wholeheartedly believed them despite the aggressive shaking of his head. He’s hardly listening to the conversation that his brothers are having, fixated on his cup. Why would he, honestly? Raph’s just going to give him that stupid look, Donnie’s going to use a word that Leo had no idea existed until that moment, and Mikey’s going to laugh at his older brothers’ antics. He only heaves out a sigh (that’s not against the rules, thankfully), trying to count the bubbles that pass by him as he stirs.

Just as Leo thinks he’s going to fall asleep, a miracle happens.

“Er, ‘scuse me, are one of you—Leonardo Ha…mato?”

It takes a second for Leo to sit up properly, turning his head in the direction of the voice. Curious brown eyes meet his own, just barely escaping being hidden beneath white, bushy bangs. The entire table’s stunned silent, and the stranger bounces awkwardly on his heels at the sudden attention. He pulls something out from underneath their arm, and Leo realizes that it’s his skateboard.

He must’ve made a face, because the stranger immediately grows flustered, quickly shaking his head. “No, it’s not what it, agh—I guess you left it outside because it was outside, and someone- someone tried taking it while me and my family were coming in, and I thought it was a pretty cool-looking board, so I’d be sad if someone took it from me, so I took it back from them. And- And I didn’t wanna leave it back out there again, because the people would just come and try to take it again, so my auntie told me to take it in and ask around for the owner since it has your name written right here—” he points out the messy handwriting near one of the wheels, before pausing. “I don’t know why I’m pointing it out to you, it’s yours.” Another pause, and his eyes grow hesitant. “It- It is yours, right?”

Leo blinks, glancing at his brothers to say something for him before he realizes.

The stranger said his name.

They never specified who had to say his name for the jinx to break. It just had to be said.

Clearing his throat, Leo puts on the best smile he can muster. “It’s mine,” he says, and Spirits Above, his voice has never cracked that badly in a single phrase. He hears his brothers snickering at the mishap, and he’s pretty sure that if he were able to blush, his facial markings would blend right into it. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the stranger either, if the small twitch of a smile on his lips is any indication. He takes the board from him, clumsily tucking it beneath the table.

The stranger lingers for a second longer before taking an unsure step backward. “So, um- I’m just gonna, y’know, go back to my table now,” he stammers, gesturing behind him. “We haven’t ordered, and, uh- yeah.” With that, he spins around on his heel, beginning to walk away.

Then, Leo realizes something else. “Wait! You!” He stumbles out of his chair, reaching a hand out to the stranger.

He startles a little, turning to face him. The both of them stand awkwardly in the midst of the floor, between their families’ tables. The silence stretches on, almost uncomfortably, as the stranger raises his brows and tilts his head forward as if to say, ‘Yes?’

Leo clears his throat again, and he prays that his voice doesn’t crack a second time. “I, uh- I forgot to say thank you.” When his voice doesn’t give way once again, he does a small victory dance—in his head, of course. Not knowing what else to do, he holds his hand out for the stranger to shake. “Thank you…” he trails off, remembering that he, in fact, does not know his name, and calling him ‘The Stranger,’ to his face would accomplish the exact opposite of what he wants to do.

Hesitantly—but not unkindly—the stranger takes his hand and gives it a gentle shake. “I’m Usagi,” he answers with a small smile.

“Usagi,” Leo repeats, nodding his head. “Oo-sah-gi?”

The stranger—Usagi cocks an amused brow. “Is it hard to pronounce?”

Leo shrugs. “Just wanna make sure I’m saying my skateboard’s hero’s name properly.”

He laughs, and Leo can’t fight the bright smile that makes its way onto his face.

“Well, anyone can be a hero,” Usagi says, lifting his chin and rolling his shoulders back (as Leo had done earlier that day). “You tell your board that if it ever needs rescuing again—”

“Usagi’s got it?”

“Usagi’s—huh? How’d you know what I was gonna say?”

Leo shrugs, though he can’t hide the way his smile grows a tick wider.

“Just had a hunch, that’s all.”

#leonardo tmnt #raphael tmnt #michelangelo tmnt #donatello tmnt #leo tmnt #raph tmnt #mikey tmnt #donnie tmnt #yuichi usagi #splinter rottmnt #rottmnt #rottmnt leo #rottmnt raph #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt fanfiction #leosagi #leochi #based on the bluey episode #i love bluey #i love rise #this is what happens #fluff #first meeting

[filamero]

Waiting On A Miracle

title from Disney’s Encanto!

Word Count: 711

Genre : Angst, Hurt/No Comfort

Warnings : borderline self-deprecation, lots of self-esteem and self-worth issues, a little bit of self-gaslighting, just Leo and his Own Thoughts™️

Summary :

Leo is upset.

Leo knows he hasn’t given his family much reason to trust him in dire situations.

But has he ever given his family reason to distrust him in that very regard?

—

In which Leo doesn’t necessarily…like himself. Nor does he feel like he has an important place in his family.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41481033

— fic below the cut!

Leo is upset.

He doesn’t know why he is upset.

Or, well, he does. He just doesn’t know why it’s making him upset.

Leo knows he hasn’t given his family much reason to trust him in dire situations. He’s never been one to cope well with the pressure to do a mission well, never been one to face something head-on and understand how to process it right off the bat. He needs his jokes, his quips, his stupid one-liners. He’s always been the jokester, that’s just who he is. He’s the faceman—not the leader like Raph, the brains like Donnie, the heart like Mikey. He’s the buoyancy in the water, the warmth in a hot air balloon. He’s there to support in a way that is second nature. The shots aren’t his to make, and he knows that.

But has he ever given his family reason to distrust him in that very regard?

He is not the only one of his brothers to have bad ideas. There is no shame in admitting that. Not all of their plans work out. There is more than enough proof of that—from the formed habit of always keeping first aid supplies on his belt, the escape pods tucked safely into his twin’s battle shell, and everything in between—but it all turns out okay, and they move on. Maybe their failed idea comes with a lecture or a near-death situation, but even then, all is forgiven. Donnie’s tech has gone awry more times than he can count, but they all still use his inventions. Mikey’s impulsive empathy has landed him in awkward situations, but he is still everyone’s friend. Raph’s anxiety has incapacitated him before, but he’s still their leader.

Leo can’t lie and say that he’s had the best luck with his plans because he hasn’t. Maybe he’s had the worst. Who’s to say?

But when he suggests something, and he’s met with unsure glances and tentative grimaces, it stings. When he is asked, “Are you sure?” in a voice that tells him ’I don’t think it’s going to work,’ it hurts.

Questions and looks like that appear with every plan, but with Leo, it feels different.

Instead of hesitance out of precaution, it feels like disdain spawned from irritation.

It feels mean. He doesn’t know how to describe it better. It just feels mean.

Maybe he reads too much into the subtleties of expression—how Donnie’s brows cinch together until he can’t make out the purple fabric in between them, how Mikey completely avoids making eye contact, how Raph’s ‘chasm’ seems to erode even further into his scales. Maybe he doesn’t pay attention enough, and these expressions are the same ones they spare each other. Maybe he has yet to grow up in the way his brothers have when it comes to the whole mystic crimefighting thing.

Has he overstepped the line one too many times for the one time he makes a plan to be doubted the instant it is created? Has he boasted about being correct too much for his family to ignore the warning signs of his intuition’s accuracy in favor of staunching his insufferable ego? Has he never brought anything worthwhile to the table, stuck passing the pawns and papers over to the others because he’s Leo, what does he know?

Maybe he has, and he shouldn’t blame his family for being wary. If he were Raph, or Donnie, or Mikey, or even Pops or April, maybe he wouldn’t trust himself either. There’s no need for him to be upset over it.

And yet, here he is, upset over it.

Because he can joke, smile, and laugh all he wants, but it still makes his chest burn. It’s an empty feeling, gnawing at his insides until he is hollow. It’s the opposite of pride but not quite disappointment; it’s the uncharted territory of an emotion yet to be explored because every bit of it is ugly. There is nothing to admire, there only exists features to fear. No one has faced it head-on, and if someone has, then they surely did not come back alive.

Leo stares this beast in the face, and he already feels himself losing.

He doesn’t think he’ll be the first to triumph.

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise leo #leonardo tmnt #rottmnt leo #angst #hurt/no comfort #emotional hurt #leo needs a hug #a massive one #i’m being fr he needs it so much #this might be author projecting a bit whoopsie #my bad guys

[filamero]

Completely forgot to post this??? At some point at the end of the production for the movie I had a few days free in between assignements, I decided to make a blooper reel. Clips are taken from me, India Swift, Allison Smith and  Ifesinachi Orjiekwe.

Should I post it on Twitter tho? is the movie still hyped?

[filamero]

has anyone with the ‘afab transmasc mk hc’ ever thought about pigsy paying for mk’s top surgery because i have not stopped thinking about it

like. pigsy saving up and paying for this kid’s surgery because he cares™️ that much, right? but stubborn mk feels maybe a teensy little (a lot, actually) bad about riding off of pigsy’s funds like that so that’s how he came to work at pigsy’s noodles because he kept insisting that he needed to make it up to pigsy somehow

#lmk #lego monkie kid #mk lego monkie kid #lmk mk #lmk pigsy #monkie kid pigsy #pigsy is best dad #trans!mk #i love mk so much #i love pigsy so much #they are father and son #qi xiaotian #lmk xiaotian

[filamero]

💙💗🤍💗💙

[filamero]

The most annoying dad in the world

[filamero]

You’re Okay, You’re Alright

[ title originates from 'Rider's Lullaby' from Centaurworld! ] Word Count: 1419 Genre / Warning : Angst, Hurt/Comfort — Trigger / content warnings for: blood, non-explicit unintentional but somehow simultaneously intentional self-harm, something akin to a panic attack, themes of derealization for a bit, and overall, mentally distressed MK Summary: There are types of hurt that you don't keep bottled up, no matter how much of a burden it makes you feel. MK still has yet to learn this lesson, and his reluctance to do so manifests itself into something he can't manage alone. — In which MK has a rough time late at night, and Wukong is (finally) the one there for him. [ao3 link! : https://archiveofourown.org/works/38866356 ] (fix below the cut :D)

MK is bleeding. The shattered glass of the mirror is piled within the sink and scattered across the floor. His eyes are trained on where the mirror used to be situated, afraid that she would appear should he even dare look in his reflection again. His ears ring, as if searching for the voices that filled them just weeks ago, his consciousness powerless against the thousands of others.  She’s here, he can almost make out over the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.  She’s here for you. He doesn’t know how he managed to break the mirror. He doesn’t know if anyone heard that. He doesn’t even know if he’s even breathing.

Breathe. Come on. Breathe. Why won’t his body breathe? Breathe. Come on. Breathe—

“—K? MK, bud, I’m here.”

His eyes obey the sound before anything else, darting to the source. He is met with golden pools of amber, concern etched in every crevice of Wukong’s eyes. “MK,” he repeats softly, in a tone that he is unfamiliar with hearing from him. “Come on, breathe with me.”

Faintly, he begin to register a rhythmic tapping against his arm, watching his chest rise, still, and fall in time with the tempo. Slowly, he closes his eyes, trying his best to follow along.

Breathe. Come on.  Breathe.

Eyes still shut, he feels him shift and hears the distant noise of one of the cabinets being opened. There’s a soft clatter of plastic against the tiled flooring, and his hand is pulled away from his body.

“You’re doing great, bud,” he reassures beyond the abyss of his eyelids, echoing around the chamber of his mind. “You’re okay. I’m here.” He hears the sink turn on, the rush of water a welcome ambiance to fill the silence. “I’m going to clean your hands now. You can keep your eyes closed if you want.”

Hesitantly, he opens his eyes.

Though Wukong’s focused on his hands, MK can clearly tell he’s worried, and it makes something ugly rear in the depths of his chest. His eyes flicker up for a moment, meeting his gaze. “Mirrors, huh?” he jokes softly, though his smile doesn’t turn up just as high as it typically does. “I never really liked them either, don’t worry.”

The mention of the mirror makes MK’s heart plummet into his stomach, muscles tensing. “She was- She was in it,” he blurts out, voice hoarse and wavering with the threat of tears. “The mirror. I saw- I saw her. She was there, she was in it—“

“MK.” There is a hand cupping his face, and he keels to the touch. His eyes meet Wukong’s once again, clinging to every ounce of comfort he is willing to offer to them. “She can’t get you here.” There’s something he can’t quite name simmering beneath his tone, but all he wants to focus on now is the reassurance. “She won’t get you here. I swear, she will never come near you again.”

His voice is steady, a tether to his mind. He sounds sure of himself, as he always does, and for the first time in a long while, his trust in him outweighs his doubts. He is still as he cleans and bandages his bloody knuckles and scratched skin, constantly talking to keep the silence from taking over. He is thankful, he is so, so thankful. Soon enough, his wounds are properly cared for, and Wukong looks up.

MK isn’t sure he’ve ever seen his face drop so quickly. Instinctively, he yanks his hands back, covering up his own face. That’s when his fingertips brush up against damp skin, tears greeting his fingers as they trickle down.

Oh.  Oh.

When had he started crying?

“Oh, Bud,” he murmurs, just loud enough to hear. He is almost convinced it’s not him; he’s never heard him sound as pained and dejected. For a moment—one mere, little moment—his panic flares back up, convinced that this must’ve been some cruel illusion that she made to toy with him. He takes a step back, eyes darting left and right to find some fault in the illusion and snap himself out of it. “MK?”

“You’re- You’re not real.”

Wukong’s face shatters more. “MK—“

“You- You don’t- You don’t sound like Monkey King—“

He reaches out for them. “Breathe—“

“I need- I need to get out of here—“

He is slower and weaker than him, and his arms wrap around them before he can even blink. His muscles tense, hands poised on his torso to shove him off. “No- No, stop it,” he begs, eyes welling with tears. “You’re not real, you’re not real—“

“MK,” he mutters, and there it is. There is that tone again, the one so soft, and concerned, and sorrowful that he is sure this can’t be Wukong. “I am real. I promise you, I am real.”

A lump forms in his throat, his resolve crumbling the longer he is held. “You are?” he asks, and his voice is softer than he intended. Much, much weaker too, wavering with the threat of more tears.

“I am,” he responds, holding him carefully as if he would shatter should his grip get too tight. He pulls away enough to look him in the eye, and for a moment, he expects them to flicker between gold and blue, waiting for a sickeningly amused smile to spread across his face. But that moment never comes, and his hands stay firm on his shoulders with no intentions of hurting him. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve been here for you. When she was here,” he admits, and MK’s muscles slowly allow himself to relax. “You, just- Just look at you. I should’ve been here, I’m so sorry.”

Though he is still hesitant, for the second time in a long while, his trust in him outweighs the doubts in his mind. “You’re here now, right?” he says softly, trying his best to plaster on a smile.

Wukong doesn’t return the gesture, simply pulling him back into a hug. “Don’t do that,” he scolds gently, moving a hand to the back of his head and weaving itself into his hair. “Don’t act like I’m not part of the reason you’re like this. I hurt you, Bud, I did.”

There’s a pause, a stilted moment in the midst of apologies and comfort.

And then, the dam breaks, MK’s resolve crumbling as he finally return the hug. “You did,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. His hands curl around the fabric of his clothes, tears beginning to spill freely from his eyes. “It- It hurt when you left us- when you left me,” he continues. His breath begins to shorten, the months of hurt upon hurt toppling down from the neat pile he tried to force it away as. “And then, you- you didn’t tell us anything, it felt like you were just gone, that you weren’t thinking of me, and I didn’t matter to you anymore—“

He cuts himself off with a sob, pressing his lips to stop the sound midway. His efforts are in vain, another pained noise rearing itself up from the back of his throat, forcing its way past his lips. They come almost as frequently as his tears, and it makes him feel small. His breathing doesn’t come easily, legs giving in.

Wukong is careful not to let MK fall, sinking down to the floor and pulling him closer. He is wordless as he sobs, rubbing circles into his back as he lets the moment carry itself out. He cries and he cries, until his eyes feel dried out and his chest hurts—and all the while, never once letting go of Wukong out of the fear he would leave the instant that he does. He combs his fingers through his hair, his tail wrapped protectively around the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Wukong repeats, once MK's breathing evens out and his sobs reduce into mere hiccups. “I’m so sorry.”

He burrows into the comfort he offers, reveling in the feeling of being held after so many months of running and fighting. “I’ll forgive you,” he responds, and before Wukong can say anything more, he adds on, “Not yet. But- But in time.”

There’s a huff of air, a sound teetering on the line of almost-laughs. “I’ve got all the time in the world, Bud.”

MK smiles, eyes slowly fluttering shut as he lets the promise of rest lull them to sleep. “Yeah. You do.”

And he is okay.

#lego monkie kid #mk lego monkie kid #mk lmk #sun wukong lego monkie kid #sun wukong lmk #wukong lego monkie kid #wukong lmk #swk lego monkie kid #lmk swk #this is kinda a fix-it #i just want mk to be happy man #i love mk so much #angst #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #lmk

[filamero]

Who’s to Blame?

Word Count: 1041

Genre / Warning: Angst - Major Character Death

Summary:

When something happens, an instinct is to pin the blame on someone.

And when there’s no one else to point to other than yourself, then what?

—

After hearing about the death of TommyInnit, at the hands of Dream in the prison nonetheless, Sam is caught in a web of his own emotions.

[ ao3 link!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788995 ]

(fic below the cut!)

Sam blames himself.

He knows that it’s not...reasonable to think so, per se.

But he also knows that he was the closest, if not the only, person who could’ve stopped it.

He didn’t listen when Tommy begged him to let him out of the prison, banging on the walls and screaming at the top of his lungs from his desperation. He told him that it was for security reasons, that it was for the safety of the rest of the server against Dream, should something related to the incident happen again.

He wonders why he didn’t realize that at that moment, in his worry for keeping Dream contained and everyone else safe, he was putting Tommy in danger.

And that mistake was paid with a life, weighing heavy on his steps as he sprinted back to the prison. He told himself that it wasn’t true, at first. That the message displayed on his communicator had been a glitch on his own end—whether it was something faulty on his own or something had messed with the signal that kept everyone connected. The lava of the prison couldn’t have felt any slower, and for the first time, his chest didn’t swell with a certain pride at his building abilities. His feet made him stand impossibly close to the edge of the beginning platform, warmth bursting on his face to the point of it being unbearable—yet, frankly, he didn’t care.

As the lava barrier grew thinner and thinner, Sam found himself praying, begging (the way Tommy had screamed at him earlier) to whatever otherworldly being controlled the strings of fate that he was getting antsy for nothing.

He had never been so angry at the universe for not listening to his pleas once the lava had fallen away completely. The moving platform could not have moved any slower, and it honestly felt like he had leaped the last few feet to get to Tommy Dream sooner. Instantly, Dream’s collar was bunched up in his fists, pulled close to his face as his anger seethed off of him in sparks and bursts of energy.

And Dream had the gall, the audacity, the nerve to laugh in his face as he demanded what happened.

Sam’s anger had flared so much in his veins that he was drowning in it, his senses clouded beyond belief with the flames that bubbled up in his gut. He had hardly registered anything that was happening in the moment—the strain clawing at his own throat as he raised his voice, yet still silent to his own ears; the angry tears building up in his eyes, threatening to spill over at any given moment; the movement of Dream’s own lips, forever having a smug and victorious look etched onto his features; the hiss of his own body as the patches of green on his skin flickered to white and back, repeatedly.

“Careful,” he remembers Dream’s voice, laced with such fake concern that Sam could tell instantly, “or else you won’t have a body to bury.”

Sam hates to think about how the words had slapped him awake ever-so-bluntly. How it doused him in ice-cold water, extinguishing any flame that had sparked in his being. Ice crept through his veins, replacing the fire that had been coursing through him just moments before.

He remembers what he promised to himself, back when he had taken up the role of warden. He had promised to never let Dream’s words crawl underneath his skin, to keep him locked up, to keep everyone else safe from him.

The realization that he was shattering that promise too is nothing short of painful and ugly, and added weight on his already weary shoulders.

Sam shakes his head, forcefully pulling himself out of the suffocating ocean of his thoughts.

He thinks of Tommy—how light he seemed despite being a few inches shorter than him, as he carried him out of the cell and through the guard tunnels outside, where he could be properly buried. How bloodied, battered, and bruised he seemed in his last moments, and Sam was left to his imagination whether the pain had haunted him to his last moments or if he had grown dull to the strikes. (And, though it made bile rise up his throat at the thought, he hopes it was the latter, that Tommy died without feeling pain at all.  But he knows that the chance of that being what happened was low, nearly impossible.) How he could still see traces of the fear and struggle cemented on his face even after he had passed, millions of unreadable emotions clawing at his insides.

And as he lays the poor boy into a makeshift coffin and buries him not too far from his favorite bench, where he would sit and celebrate his victories, a sinking feeling began to settle in his chest. Sam can’t wait for a funeral to lay him down to rest, the weight of broken promises—promised, he had promised that Tommy would be under his care, and he wouldn’t let anything bad ever happen to him—pushing him into the ground in such a manner that he isn’t sure whether Tommy is the only one getting buried. He can’t bear to think of his face, to picture an impossibly bright smile replaced by the solemn expression that he had died with.

Sam wonders if this is how Phil felt, holding Wilbur’s dying body in his arms.

A bitter chuckle forces its way past his lips. He and Phil are different. Sure, they had both been responsible for the death of someone they considered dear.

But Phil tried to keep Wilbur alive.

He had left Tommy locked up, signing the deal on his death in the books of fate.

And as the sun sets, Sam can’t erase that heavy feeling in his chest, carving out a crater deeper than the one that resides in place of a country that Tommy used to love so dearly. He finds himself crumbling to his knees as the sun dips below the horizon, the light leaving the world as the guilt, the shame, the sorrow holds him captive.

Sam blames himself.

Is there really anyone else to take that burden?

#angst #dreamsmp #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #awesamedude #so uh #today's stream huh #tommy dies #i'm so sorry #sam feels guilty #i'm sorry again #dream's kinda a bitch #then again he beat tommy to death so #ouch

[filamero]

A Son’s Shame

Word Count: 3094

Summary: 

One of the worst feelings in the world is to disappoint the ones you hold dear. Painful, excruciating, and agonizing as long as they feel too embarrassed to even claim you as one of their own.

Shame is a burden that is borne to those who cause great destruction and realize it far too late.

(In which Dream is alone with his thoughts in prison, and he can't help but think about the women he learned to call his mothers.)

[ ao3 link!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994955 ]

(fic below the cut!)

One of the worst feelings in the world is to disappoint the ones you hold dear. To watch their hope in you fade away until it’s gone, to be left behind in the dust as they continued on with their lives, to be cast aside when there were promises of forever. It hurts in indescribable ways, cuts deeper than the sharpest of blades, weighs heavier than the weight of the heavens that laid on Atlas’ shoulders. Painful, excruciating, and agonizing as long as they feel too embarrassed to even claim you as one of their own.

Shame is a burden that is borne to those who cause great destruction and realize it far too late.

Dream remembers what life was like alongside Puffy and Niki.

He doesn’t remember his birth parents. What their names were, what they looked like, what they did for a living, how they died—or if they even died at all, and left him behind because caring for an infant while poor proved to be far too difficult for them to manage. In his earliest memories, he was on his own, out on the streets of the marketplace and calling an old, thrown-out supply crate his home. There might’ve been people that taught him how to live as a ‘street-rat’—named lovingly so by the villagers who saw people like him as a bother instead of a cause for charity—but at the end of the day, the only person who truly cared about his own well-being was himself.

Until Puffy and Niki entered his life.

The night of the storm, when Puffy carried him home and Niki cared for him, was the first night he felt loved by someone else. He never realized just how hungry he was until Niki set a bowl of soup in front of him at the dining table, a bigger serving than what he ate for the past week combined. Or maybe even the whole month. His big, surprised green eyes met her kind, generous blue ones, taking the seat next to him and scooping up a spoonful for him. “It’s really hot,” she chuckled, making a show of blowing on it to cool it down before holding it up to his lips. “It’s good, I promise.”

Dream tentatively took a bite, heeding Niki’s warning and trying to avoid scalding his tongue. He would’ve been lying if he said that it wasn’t the most delicious thing he had ever tried up until that moment. His thoughts must’ve been obvious with the way Puffy and Niki laughed gently at him, Niki already scooping up and blowing on another spoonful for him to eat. The warmth blooming in his chest from the care slowly began to match the heat radiating off of the soup, and for the first time in his life, he felt completely safe. Comfortable, relaxed, at ease—even with the storm raging outside.

Puffy had let him sleep in her bed that night, wrapping her arm carefully around him as if she were shielding him from anything that could put him in harm’s way. The thunder boomed loudly that night, letting the world know that whatever otherworldly being ruled it was angry, its wrath coming down as the storm rampaged on. Yet he didn’t fear for himself once, simply cuddling up closer to the kind woman who he had been following around for God-knows-how-long, lulled to sleep by a gentle song that she seemed to know by heart.

Dream learned what it was like to be a son.

Puffy and Niki taught him everything that he needed to know—from English to math, history to science, and everything that they knew of in between. He grew to be sharp-witted and intelligent, his mind being his greatest weapon. Trades would come easy whenever he accompanied Puffy to the marketplace—negotiating the best deals, he found out, usually involved being charismatic and, though it felt a little like scamming, a spoonful of outsmarting the seller. Baking became a second habit, knowing his way around the kitchen well and helping Niki out whenever he could, especially on days where business boomed like during festivals or holiday nights.

But more importantly, they shaped him into what they knew. They encouraged being loving and compassionate, empathetic and sincere, reliable and trustworthy—someone who would make the world a better place rather than tarnish it any more than it already had been. “You have a very special name, you know?” Puffy said to him one day, as she settled on the soft plush of the loveseat while he sat on the floor in front of her, head tilted back to rest on her lap and look up at her. “Dream. It’s not really a common one,” she continued. “I think your parents were smart for giving you a name like that one.”

Dream tilted his head to the side, curiosity swimming in his bright, forest-colored eyes. “Why?”

Puffy snorted softly. “Look at you, already asking me questions. You’re growing up too fast, slow down,” she hummed, carefully threading her fingers through his soft, growing, dirty-blond locks with a smile. “Do you know what a dream is?”

“Those little movies that play in your head while you’re sleeping, right?” he responded, reaching up and tapping the side of his head for extra emphasis. “I never remember what mine are like.”

“Not that kind of dream! Silly duck,” Puffy grinned, a laugh falling from her lips and easing his nerves, just as they always did. “I meant the kind of dream that’s like...something you want to do. In the future.”

Dream paused for a moment, processing the information. “Like eating dinner? Is that a dream?”

“Maybe for some,” she responded, looking down at him. “But think bigger. It’s—oh! It’s like a goal. A hope. Something really, really big that you really, really want to see happen or do.”

He nodded his head slowly, though if the slight furrow in his brow said anything, it would say something about the connection it had to his name.

Puffy leaned down, looping her arms underneath his arms and hoisting him up onto her lap. She gave him a smile, one of those motherly smiles that made a certain warmth bloom in his chest and spread to the tips of his fingers and toes. “I think you’re our dream, me and Niki,” she stated softly, fixing some stray strands of hair on his face. “We’ve had plenty of dreams, you know. I wanted to sail the sea—” she gestured to herself, “—and I did that. Niki wanted to start a bakery and look at her business now. We wanted to have a happy life, and I don’t think we could ask for a better one than right now.”

Dream cracked a small smile. “Am I part of the ‘happy life’ dream?”

Puffy clicked her tongue. “You’re more.” She tugged him close into a hug, raising her free arm into the air as if painting a picture for him. “I don’t really know how to say it, but—me and Niki love you a lot. You...You’re something new every day, and I mean it.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re getting sappy.”

She laughed loudly, playfully flicking his forehead. “It’s true! I think I’m getting close to my woman-thing of the month,” she joked, pinching his cheek. “But I woke up this morning, saw you helping Niki make breakfast, and—I don’t know—I realized that I want you to go far. Wait, no—I realized that I know you’ll go far. You’re gonna blow me away, you’re gonna blow Niki away, you’re gonna blow everyone you ever meet away. Your name is Dream because you’re gonna be big someday, I just know it!”

He fell silent for a few moments, glancing down at his hands. Could he really be what Puffy was saying? He knew that she and Niki would love him no matter where he ended up—but the way Puffy talked about him just then...He wanted to be that too. He wanted to be his own dream. “You really think so?” he asked, looking back up at her.

“Haven’t you been listening? I know so!” she grinned, pulling him impossibly close into a hug. “You’re gonna be great, Dream, I know you are. Just promise not to forget us, alright?”

He laughed softly, the noise muffled by the way his cheek was pressing up against her shoulder. “I won’t ever,” he reassured, wriggling out of her embrace to look her in the eye, a determined spark igniting in the sea of green.

Puffy cooed, squishing Dream’s face up once more. “That’s my duckling,” she giggled, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be your dream,” he thought aloud, a smile on his face as he pictured the future. “I’ll be someone you can be proud of, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t say it like that,” Puffy chuckled, ruffling his hair. “I think I’ll always be proud of you.”

Dream grinned brightly, mind already made up. He was going to make her and Niki proud one day, he promised.

A tear rolls down Dream’s cheek, bringing him out of his thoughts. The obsidian wall is hard against his back, and the lava to his right emits just enough warmth to almost-mockingly caress his face. The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is bitter, rolling off of his tongue and leaving a sickeningly sour taste. Shaking hands come up to his face and wipe at his eyes, getting rid of the tears that threatened to fall. One was enough—though it felt like one was already too much. His eyes drift to the netherite rails keeping him in, reaching out and touching the warming metal.

It’s funny, how he’s surrounded by warm things, yet he still feels so cold. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest that refuses to leave, forever burned there the way the crater of L’manburg will no doubt be. The slow drip of lava is the only sound that reaches his ears, far away from daily life to hear any chatter that could be happening outside at that moment.

There’s something else though, an eerie voice in the back of his head—though he’s learned how to tune it out in the few days that he spent in this wretched prison.

It would be easy to blame his actions on the dreamon. To say that it’s influence increased in the time between when he first ‘befriended’ it to now. To say that it overtook him to do all the things he did, to commit all the crimes that he’s committed, and that he had no control over his body while it rampaged on.

But that wouldn’t be true.

Everything he did, he did on his own.

He knows that he wasn’t always like this. Back when he first claimed the land as his—and George’s and Sapnap’s—he had good intentions. When he opposed L’manburg during their first war of independence, because their whole country stemmed from a drug cartel. When he ‘advocated’ for Schlatt in the elections, because he didn’t really do anything wrong—all he did was join an election that was open to the residents of his server. When he smiled, and laughed, and played, and had friends.

Then it changed. He had ignored the dreamon’s influence at first—rarely letting it slip. But somewhere along the lines, he became in tune with it, using it to amplify his own skills: his combat, his intelligence, his charisma. It became a part of his daily life, working in tandem with it to maintain the order. He accepted it.

He wishes he didn’t.

Somewhere along the lines, in between his acceptance of the otherworldly being that he allowed to reside in his mind and body, the word ‘order’ blurred into ‘power.’ No longer did he wish to keep things in check for everyone to be happy; he wanted to be at the top and stay at the top. His days were spent building up this pillar, this pedestal that he set himself upon, raising him high above everyone else. If anyone dared get close, he loaded his crossbow and shot them down, no matter who they were.

The word ‘friends’ turned into ‘attachments’ and then ‘nuisances.’ How could he be the only one on top when there were others tethered to his ankles, stunting his growth? And when he did manage to climb higher, the bonds tying them together only brought them up with him—the distance remained the same, and he would be back at square one. The dreamon didn’t even influence the decision to spray every one of his bonds with gasoline, tossing a match to each and every one, watching them burn away into nothing but ashes. There were storm clouds beneath where he stood, no doubt raining down a mighty wrath—but it never crossed his mind to dip below, hold his hand out to everyone, and pull them up to his level where they would be safe from the storm.

Bile rises up in his throat. He had come full circle.

He thinks of when he was younger, alone on the streets, surviving on stolen goods alone.

He thinks of when he first met Puffy, showing him compassion after having just met him.

He thinks of when he first went home to Niki, already treating him as one of her own within seconds.

He thinks of how they taught him almost everything he knows, shaping him into the witty yet compassionate leader he is—or, well, was.

When did that foundation come crumbling down?

The hole in his chest seems to expand at the thought of his mothers—could he even call them his mothers anymore? He supposes they were caught in the wreckage when he destroyed all his relationships, isolating himself because he wanted to be number one.

Did they miss him?

Did he miss them?

He pauses for a moment, tilting his head back and leaning it against the obsidian walls the way he had done with Puffy’s lap all those years ago.

Yeah.

He missed them.

He doesn’t think they miss him, though.

Because if he were his own parent, in their shoes, he wouldn’t want to claim himself as his own.

He’s been anything but a good person. It was easy to deny this, to say that ‘the ends justify the means’, to act like he would go back and fix all of his mistakes in due time, back when he wasn’t locked up. When he still had people by his side (that stood by his side willingly). But now, deep within Pandora’s Box, when he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, it was hard to deny what he’s done. He knows that his actions were unacceptable, irredeemable, inappropriate in every way imaginable. Framing others for his misdeeds, manipulating nearly everyone (especially those who weren’t in the right state of mind), pulling and tangling the strings until they were so knotted that there was hardly anything that he didn’t instigate.

Who in their right mind would claim him as their son?

Tears well up a little in Dream’s eyes once again, and he laughs. It’s even more bitter than the one from before, acidic and disgusting all the same. It wracks through his body, shaking the tears out of his eyes.

Why was it only now that he was regretting his actions?

Puffy and Niki come to mind once more, and Dream smiles to himself tightly.

Once, a long time ago, he was told that his name was special. That it shone with his potential. That one day, when he was older, he was going to take the world by storm and blow everyone away.

He supposes he’s done that. Just not in the way the person who told him that expected.

“I’ll be your dream,” he murmured to himself, tears trickling down his face in a steady stream that mimicked the lava blocking his only exit off. The memory replays in his head, carving the crater in his heart out to be even deeper, emptier. His throat seizes up, and it suddenly becomes harder to talk. “I’ll be someone you can be proud of, Mom.”

He knows he’s not someone that Puffy nor Niki can be proud of. Maybe he was before, but he’s far from it now.

He’s a disappointment.

He isn’t sure that he could ever look his mothers in the eye ever again. His eyes would probably be glued to the floor when they visited him—or if they wanted to visit him at all. He longs to hug them, to sink into their embrace, to cry out apology after apology, to rebuild their little cottage of memories in their hearts that he had so carelessly abandoned, left to be destroyed in the storm of consequences that he didn’t even bother to consider. It’s pathetic, he knows, how quickly he was crumbling underneath the weight of his actions now that he had to face them. How he had been so blind to the hole that he had dug for himself, all because he was too caught up in soaring higher and higher into the sky—to be number one, to be at the top, to be someone that the world would acknowledge, for his own satisfaction. How he had stomped out all the hope that the others had in him, falling further and further into the darkness that he had so willingly stepped into. How he had broken promises just as easily as he destroyed relationships.

He’s facing his actions head-on, and it burns so brightly that it’s scalding his skin, and all he can do is stand there and let it scorch, in the hope that it’ll scar over later on. No one is there to hold him close, to press cool cloths against his burns, to sing him a familiar song as he drifts off to sleep. It hurts, it hurts so bad to have nothing to do but think about just how disappointing of a person—of a son, that he was.

His shoulders sag against the wall, everything—his thoughts, his memories, his behavior and its consequences—weighing down heavily on his being. He wants nothing more than to sink into the ground and ease himself from the pain, but he knows that he can’t.

For shame is a burden that is borne to those who cause great destruction and realize it far too late.

#dreamwastaken #dream fanfic #captain puffy #mama puffy #niki nihachu #nihachu #dream smp #haha dream is in prison #suck it green boy

[filamero]

A Mother’s Rage

 [SEQUEL TO A MOTHER’S LOVE]

Word Count: 2885

Summary: 

- It is often said that a mother’s rage is incomparable with anything else in the world. Fierce, scalding, passionate as long as its coals are fanned.A mother’s rage is a force to be reckoned with.

( In which Niki thinks about her son, from both the past and the present. )

[ ao3 link!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952805 ]

(fic below the cut!)

It is often said that a mother’s rage is a type of anger that burns bright and hot.  It decimates anything that decides to get in its way, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake.  Mightier than the worst of storms, drawing energy from deep within the heart and soul, strong enough to make even the most powerful bow down to its will—It is said that nothing in the world could ever compare.  Fierce, scalding, passionate as long as its coals are fanned.

A mother’s rage is a force to be reckoned with.

Niki remembers the night that Puffy brought Dream home with her.  

She was surprised that their windows were holding their own, the rain pounding down so hard on the glass that it sounded like the knocks of a madman looking for shelter.  The waves on the nearby shore came crashing angrily, filling the air with loud noises to accent the booms of thunder that seemed to shake the ground.  Her feet had led her outside, standing at her door and looking out for Puffy, just in case the former captain would need help carrying supplies home.  She was glad that she had listened to her instincts after seeing her strikingly red overcoat—in comparison to the blues, browns, and beiges that characterized their home—amidst the raging droplets of water.  Tucked into the shorter woman’s arms was a small child, clinging onto her as if his life depended on it.

She didn’t even bother putting on her shoes before lifting up the skirt of her dress and scurrying to aid her.

“Puffy!” Niki cried out once she was close enough, using her arms to shield herself from the rain.  Her efforts were in vain though, her own hair and clothes beginning to match the state of her lover and the boy in her arms.  “You’re both soaked…Come hurry back home,” she frowned, the chill of the air already nipping at her skin through the material of her sleeves.

“It’s a little hard to run like this, Niki,” Puffy joked lightly, bouncing the child and the bag of traded supplies to prove her point.

Pursing her lips, Niki held her arms open and sighed, “I’ll take one, we just need to hurry before it picks up even more.”

Puffy nodded, loosening her grip on the boy and looking at him.  He looked almost reluctant to let her go, his own hold on her tightening when he felt himself slipping.  “Hey, hey, now,” she cooed softly, giving him one of the softest smiles that Niki’s ever seen on her face.  “This is Niki, she’s a...really good friend of mine.”  (Niki would’ve snorted in laughter at the description, but she had higher priorities that distracted her from the comical part of things.)  “I trust her lots, so she isn’t going to hurt you, Duckling, okay?”  The boy hesitated for a moment more before slowly turning to Niki and extending his arms to her instead.

Niki put on a soft smile of her own, taking him from her arms and not wasting a moment to go running towards the safety of their cottage.  She used her arms and head to shield him from the rain; he already felt light and thin in her embrace, something told her that a storm like this one could easily make him fall ill without trying.  Relief coursed through her veins once the sand and gravel underneath her feet became wood, opening the door with practiced ease and stepping inside.  She couldn’t have been in the rain for more than a few minutes, yet the material of her dress clung to her skin almost as much as the boy in her arms held onto her neck.  Water dripped from both of their soaking figures on the floor.  The boy watched guiltily as the fallen droplets began to pool into small puddles, but Niki only combed her hands through his hair and tutted her tongue.  “We can worry about that later,” she hummed, carrying him to the washroom.

The tiles of the bathroom were cold against her feet as she leaned over the tub to get some warm water running.  She set him down carefully, taking extra care to let him stand on an extra towel instead of the floor.  “Do you mind taking off your clothes?” she asked softly, making a twirling motion with her hand.  “I can turn around while you do, if you’d like.  Privacy is important, after all,” she smiled, already making a show of turning halfway to let him know she was serious.

He slowly nodded his head, and she turned around all the way.

His clothes hit the floor in an almost hilarious ‘splat!’, though Niki made sure to keep any bouts of laughter to herself.  After a few moments, she felt a small tug on the end of her dress, accompanied by s soft, “I’m done, miss.”

“Do you think you can get in the tub yourself?” She asked softly, still facing away from him and looking at the wall.  “Or do you need my help?”

A beat of silence.  “Can I have a little help?  Please?”

Niki felt herself mentally coo.  “Of course.”

She turned around fully, hooking her arms underneath the boy’s and lifting him up once more, easing him into the warm water.  His eyes lit up with a certain glow, immediately sinking further into the warmth—and Niki couldn’t help but chuckle softly to herself.  

“Thank you for letting me use your hot water, miss.”

Niki grabbed a small bucket off of the bathroom shelf, dipping it into the water and gently pouring it atop his head to start washing him off.  “I appreciate your politeness,” she chuckled, leaning over to grab the shampoo, “but you don’t have to be so formal.  My name’s Niki.”

“That’s a pretty name,” he murmured softly, and she could see him playing around with the water a little.

“Mind if I ask yours?”

“Dream.”

Niki smiled.  “That’s a lovely name as well.”

Dream had ended up falling asleep as Niki washed him off, her heart swelling with a certain fondness for the boy she just met.  Gentle with wrapping him up in a towel and heading to the bedroom to scavenge something for him to wear, she set him down on their bed to sleep soundly.  It was hard—even if she and Puffy weren’t the largest people themselves, Dream was much too small and young to be measured by their standards.  (And don’t get her started on trying to find underwear that wouldn’t potentially embarrass him by wearing it.)  The smallest she could find was an old pair of shorts and a shrunken shirt from a laundry mishap, being careful not to wake him up as she slipped them on for him.  Tucking him into the covers and changing into another pair of clothes herself, she made sure to shut the curtains and close the door softly as she retreated to the kitchen.

Puffy met her in the kitchen—while she was midway through cooking soup—also changed and dried off.  

A conversation or two later, Niki found out how exactly Puffy knew Dream.

There was an ache in her heart, imagining just how long he must’ve been alone.  Everyone had their own lives and worries, but she couldn’t help but ask herself why no one thought to help him out sooner.  A kid, who couldn’t have been any older than six.  People ran their businesses differently, she was aware of that too—but that vendor couldn’t have let losing profits of one loaf of bread slip and instead chose to chase after the poor boy?  The ache grew into a small seed of bitterness at the thought, tugging her lips into a growing frown.  The heat emitting from the stove furnace mirrored the one threatening to ignite in her veins, though her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle patter of footsteps into the kitchen.

She turned her head to the side to see Dream looking bashfully down at his feet, playing with the hem of his clothes.  “Miss Niki?” he asked softly, standing on his toes and attempting to look into the pot.  “I’m a little hungry…”

Niki smiled, the sparks of anger at unknown faces extinguishing before they could even ignite.  “Soup’ll be done in a minute, Dream.  Say, why don’t you and Puffy set the table, alright?”

Puffy held her hand out to him, and the pair scampered off into the conjoined living-dining room.

They had their first ‘family’ dinner that night.

Niki managed to work Dream into her schedule perfectly; he was a delight to be around.  Though it took a little bit for him to warm up to her, their relationship eventually became like Puffy’s and his: a mother and her son.  She was fond of the days that he chose to stay home, begging her to let him help her bake.  An occasional crack of the egg here, a mixing the ingredients together there.  Nothing too hard, and nothing that he couldn’t handle.

One day, while she left the kitchen to go grab a damp cloth from the kitchen to clean with, a loud shattering noise quickly brought her back.  Shards of the plate that she had set her cookies on laid scattered on the ground, the cookies semi-piled where the plate must’ve made the first contact.  Dream stood sheepishly at the wreckage, putting on a tight smile and folding his hands behind his back.  “I…I wanted to try one.”

Niki put her hands on her hips, and Dream shrunk a little more into himself.  “Dream,” she started off, her voice gentle yet stern.  “You should’ve waited for me to come back.”  Leaning down and opening one of the cabinets, she pulled out a hand broom and dustpan.  Careful not to step on the shattered porcelain, she continued, “I would’ve come back in only a few seconds.  There was no need for you to rush.”

“Sorry, Niki,” Dream mumbled, his voice impossibly quiet.  She would’ve missed it if the sound of glass dragging against the tiles would’ve been even just a smidge louder.  Saying that she hadn’t been a little annoyed would’ve been a complete and utter lie; slight irritation did simmer beneath her skin for a moment.  But seeing the genuine look of regret written on Dream’s features, slouched posture, and soft tone to his voice made that small bout of temper dissipate.  She sighed softly, shaking her head and carefully making her way towards him.

“I’m just being cautious,” she explained softly, taking his hands into her own and crouching down to be in his line of view.  “I’d hate for you to get hurt, Dream.  You’re my little duckling,” she chuckled, tapping the tip of his nose and reveling in the subtle but clearly there perk up of his lips.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, tilting his head to the side a little.

Niki pinched his cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.  “I could never.”

A flash of stark white porcelain brings Niki out of her thoughts.  Her grip is impossibly tight on the flint and steel in her hands, the metal warming in her grasp.  Not too far in front of her, explosives rain down from an eerily perfect obsidian grid in the sky, deepening the crater that replaced New L’manburg.  Though it is high and far beyond her reach, she catches glimpse of a figure—clad in a green sweater and dark jeans—navigating his way across them with an expert’s ease.  The sight alone was enough to make her blood begin to boil, her heart igniting with a strong fire that couldn’t be matched by anything she’s ever witnessed.

For Niki isn’t mad.

She’s livid.

At what, you may ask?

Well…

Everything.

Especially at the events of the world that led to the current moment.  A plethora of wars, failed elections, and countless conflicts piling on top of one another and shaping L’manburg into something painfully unrecognizable.  The place she had come to love as her home was now something that she felt no connection to.  Hell, there was a twisted satisfaction curling in her gut as seeing it all come tumbling down in flames.  The country was already ruined beyond belief in her eyes, and to finally see something so insufferable, so unlikeable, so infuriating meet the fate that she wanted so desperately to come.

She doesn’t realize that she’s ignited the flint and steel until the flames’ tendrils reach out to her, warmth caressing her face.  Taking a step back, she watches as the ‘L’mantree’—the only natural tree of the land left standing—gets overtaken in splashes of red, orange, and yellow.  An ironically beautiful ‘sunset’ in the midst of all the chaos and destruction.

Niki feels the fire grab ahold of her, tendrils curling around her limbs and sinking in through her skin—but it doesn’t burn.  Instead, it rages through her veins and heart, crying out with a feeling that she was foreign to.  Not a single tear dares fall, and if one tries to, the heat of her wrath seems to evaporate it without even giving it a chance to start running.  She lifts her hand up into a salute as the tree goes down, but solemn is far from what she is feeling.  It’s almost as if she had taken her sword by the handle and sliced clean through the ropes of the bridge that connected her to her past, her now-empty promises, her memories of long-ago whose importance scorched away into nothing.  They didn’t matter to her anymore, and as she watched the bridge fall and burn away into ashes, she’s sure that it never will matter to her again.

Her eyes drift up to the obsidian sky once more, landing on a figure—wearing a stark-white mask with a poorly scribbled-on smile—sitting casually atop it.  Watching, as if it were a Saturday-morning television show.  Grinning, as if nothing else in the world could be more amusing.  Laughing, as if everything were just a game to him, and everything could be reset with the simple click of a button.

Niki grits her teeth, the fire of anger within her suddenly blazing into an inferno.

Dream.

What had happened to him?

Her sweet little duckling, one that she said she could never get mad at, had thrown a lit match straight into a sea of gasoline, and Niki just so happened to be sailing in the midst of it.

The fond memories that should fill her with sorrow at witnessing such a drastic change in her son only ignite white-hot fury, seizing her mind until all she can see is red.  She can’t remember the fuzzy sensation that would overtake her senses whenever she heard him laugh brightly at a joke that she or Puffy made.  She can’t remember the warmth that bloomed in her chest whenever he would cuddle up to her side and fall asleep ever-so-peacefully in her embrace.  She can’t remember the fondness that would bring a smile to her face whenever she saw him grin toothily at her from across the room.  Dream has long been thrown out of her heart, back into the harsh storm that she sheltered him from all those years ago.

And she hopes it stays that way.

No son of hers was going to be known as cruel, unforgiving, manipulative—everything that she raised and expected him not to be.

Niki takes a deep breath and spins around, not a single ounce of hesitance in her step as she walks away from the scene.  From the burning tree of what once was, from the large crater of her former home, from the man who looked identical to her son yet was completely different in every way imaginable.  

She pictures him in her head: scarred face obscured by the unbelievably aggravating smiling mask at all times; tousled, dirty-blond locks that were beginning to grow just past his shoulders; eyes that could pierce sharper than a poison-tipped arrow; and a malicious smile that she wanted to tear right off of his face whenever she saw it.  She compares it to the son that she loved way back when: freckled face with rounded cheeks; wavy, borderline-curly hair that he always begged to get braided by his mothers; eyes that were friendly and filled with a child-like wonder; and a big, impossibly contagious smile brightened her day whenever it came out to say ‘hello!’

Each note of a difference was just another coal tossed into the overheating furnace, and then and there is when Niki makes up her mind.

She wants that man—that stranger that killed her son, took his face, and replaced him—dead and gone.  To meet the same ill-fate that L’manburg met just moments before this one.  She doesn’t care how it happens; through the powers of nature, by the weapons of all the people that he crossed, or even by her own two hands if it came down to it.

A crack of thunder booms and echoes in her ears, a bolt of lightning striking nearby but steering clear of Niki’s path.

For even nature knows that a mother’s rage is a force to be reckoned with.

#niki nihachu #niki #dreamwastaken #dream mcyt #dream fanfic #mama niki #i was thinking about how puffy and niki are promised to each other #and puffy adopted dream #so that makes niki his mom too #and she canonically has a vendetta against him #so this happened #angst #yum

[filamero]

A Mother’s Love

[ Fluff in the beginning, angst at the end!! ]

Word count: 2540

Summary:

— It is often said that a mother’s love is the purest love of them all, and that to lose a mother's love means to become unlovable all the same.

( In which Puffy thinks about her son, from both the past and present. )

[ ao3 link!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902006 ]

(fic under the cut!)

It is often said that a mother’s love is the purest love of them all. Whether by blood or by choice, it is said to be strong. Stronger than that of friends who have been there for each other through thick and thin, stronger than that of the heart when it finally finds its other half—It is said to be the only real bond in the world, the only true love that a person could find in their lifetime. Unwavering, unshaken, unconditional for as long as it lasts.

To lose a mother’s love means to become unlovable all the same.

Puffy remembers the first time she encountered Dream.

Just a few months after she had retired from her ships and her crew to settle down in a little village, helping the ever-so-charming Niki start up her bakery. Not too far from the coast, so she could visit what she embraced for many years in her life. She had been out in the market with a satchel full of emeralds, trading for wheat, sugar, flour—all the likes of which Niki would need to bake her delicious goods. In the midst of a particularly good trade, she heard a faint ‘hey!’ and frantic footsteps, followed by her getting shoved into the wooden cart of the vendor. Whipping around to lash back, she was just in time to see a child stumble onto his rear, holding a loaf of bread to his chest as if his life depended on it. Before her confusion could even fully settle in, another vendor came running, eyes zoned in on the child.

And he did not look happy.

Puffy wasn’t quite sure what washed over her, quickly getting onto her knees to be at level with the poor boy before the vendor reached them. “There you are!” she cried out in fake relief, resting one hand on his shoulder and putting on a worried face. “I thought I lost you!” Her act seemed to confuse the vendor (just as much as it confused the boy). She turned to look up at the (thankfully) less angry adult, forcing a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry, sir. I had asked this...this little troublemaker here to grab me some other supplies on the other end of the market. Growing boys need to start doing things on their own, don’t you think?” she explained, shifting to be in between both of them for extra measure. “I must’ve forgotten to give him some emeralds to pay with, silly me,” she continued, rising to her feet and rummaging through her bag. “How much is the bread?”

There was an almost painful silence as she stared the vendor down, her cheeks starting to hurt from how long she was holding the smile. Much to her relief, he seemed to believe her lie, holding his hand out and mumbling, “Two emeralds.” She handed the payment over with no qualms (even though she knew that the bread around these parts was normally one emerald), helping the boy up onto his feet and gripping his hand before he could sprint off. She needed to keep the act up, or else she might get roped into bigger trouble.

“I’m sorry again for the trouble,” Puffy chuckled, quickly tossing six emeralds to the vendor she was talking to before and snagging two bags full of apples from his stand. “I’ll make sure that this doesn’t happen again, I assure you.” She went off without another word, dragging the child with her until they were a safe enough distance away from the market.

He attempted to wriggle his wrist out of her hand, just about to sprint off again—but she kept a firm hold as she turned to face him. “Give me a minute, will ya?” she sighed, setting both bags of apples down and peeking into them. He stood still, and Puffy managed to get a better look at him now that she didn’t have to worry about his safety from an angry villager. Clad in a sweater that seemed much too large and pants that nearly covered his bare feet, she couldn’t help but frown. Carefully letting go of his wrist, she tied up one of the bags and held it out to him. He stared at her, big green eyes swimming with confusion. She nudged his arm, and he eventually took the bag from her. “Take these with the bread too,” she said gently. “They’re apples, so they might spoil quickly, but they should last you long enough to get more food.” Slowly, he nodded his head before giving her a small smile and scampering off.

Puffy never failed to see him every time that she visited the market. It was almost like clockwork; she would arrive with her satchel of things to trade, and within five minutes of walking around, the gentle patter of smaller footsteps trailing after her own could be heard. A glance over her shoulder and sure enough, the little boy would be following her around. He would always stand close to her, even clutching onto her red overcoat whenever the street got crowded and a small child like him would be easily trampled over. With each passing encounter, Puffy found herself more and more endeared with him, dubbing him her ‘Little Duckling’ in her head.

One day, she asked for his name.

“Dream,” he told her, and she didn’t realize that it was the first time that she was hearing his voice. “My name is Dream.”

Puffy wondered if the boy’s parents named him that way because they had high hopes for him, and if they ever predicted that they would be gone—it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was orphaned and homeless, comical as it sounded—before he even had the chance to do anything.

On that very same day, a storm had settled over the village. It wasn’t anywhere near what Puffy’s witnessed out on the ocean, but it was clear that it was more than what Dream has ever seen. A particularly loud bit of thunder seemed to scare the poor boy half to death, clinging to her side and looking fearfully up at the sky. There was no hesitation in Puffy’s head, leaning down, hoisting Dream into her arms, and balancing him and their newly traded supplies on either of her hips. “Let’s get home,” she hummed softly, starting up a soft jog back to her and Niki’s shared cottage that was connected to the bakery, “before this storm picks up even more, yeah?”

Dream nodded his head, wrapping his arms around her neck and resting his head on her shoulder as she rushed back.

Niki welcomed Dream in with open arms, a motherly smile, and a nice bowl of soup to warm him up after getting slightly soaked in the rain.

And when Dream curled up into her side as he drifted off to sleep, Puffy felt her heart swell in a way that only a mother could feel.

That night, Puffy accepted that she was a mother, and Dream was her son.

Some days, he would accompany Puffy back to the market as he did before, following behind her and staying out of trouble. He paid extra attention whenever she would do negotiations, and he tugged on the end of her coat sleeve whenever she finally came to an agreement. It would always make her chuckle and hand him the right amount of payment, hooking her hands underneath his arms to lift him up. He would hand it over himself, grinning brightly as he handed the newly gained supplies back to Puffy. She even let him try and strike a few deals on his own, and she was a little surprised to see that many of the villagers would consider some of his offers that they wouldn’t bat an eye at if she had been the one to recommend it. (Though, frankly, she figured it was his age.)

Other days, he would stay home with Niki, helping her bake goods for their flourishing business. Those days often consisted of Puffy coming home from her local travels or trading to the two of them in the kitchen, her little duckling giggling and covered in flour or batter. Niki would pretend to be upset and scold him gently, but all Dream did in return was giggle and respond with an honestly half-assed, “Sorry, Niki!” The mostly ingenuine apology was never too important, for Niki would easily forgive him and play into his antics, teaching him how to be cleaner on his own in a nicer manner. It would take both of them a minute or two to notice that she came in, and when they did, Dream would hop off of his little stool and come crashing into her arms for a hug.

It was almost scary how quickly Dream fell into the groove of things, turning their family of two into a family of three. They bought and sewed him new clothes, he brought them a new kind of adventure every day—unpredictable and welcome all the same.

A loud crack of thunder echoes through Puffy’s ears, and she’s snapped back into reality. The familiar coast and quaint cottage in her memory fade away into the sight in front of her; a large crater, where a beautiful country used to stand. Her ears are still ringing slightly from the onslaught of explosives that rained down from the sky just moments before. An eerily perfectly set up grid of obsidian hovered above where she stood, casting shadows over what used to be so bright and beloved. She notices a hand reaching up beneath her, quickly scrambling down and hoisting who she realized was Tubbo from a thin ledge on the side of the crater. The teen scrambles over to Tommy the moment he’s on stable ground, flinching hard at the second boom of thunder that Puffy registers.

The wind blows against her figure, and her soaked overcoat does nothing to shield her from the cold. The armor she wears isn’t much help either, weighing her down just as much as her damp clothing is. A shiver wracks her body as she holds her arms close, looking out at the wreckage. Hardly anything remained of New L’manburg—even the debris of what used to be got blown to bits by the endless TNT and withers. Her eyes wander the pitiful scenery, snagging on a figure across from her on the other end of the crater.

Clad in a green sweater—one that was no longer oversized on his figure the way it had been years ago—standing tall and proud—having outgrown both Puffy and Niki in his teenage years—was Dream.

Her Dream.

Her little duckling.

The lightning seems to strike the ground right behind him, and he didn’t even bat an eye at it. Puffy feels a lump rise in her throat, tears starting to trickle down her face and mixing with the rain pounding down from the darkened skies. She refused to believe the Dream she was seeing now was the same one that she met at the market, even if the two shared messy, dirty blond hair and striking jade eyes. But even in her heart’s denial, her head knows better, and she is left to wonder where her sweet boy had taken a turn for the worse. She stares at the stark white porcelain covering his face, the somewhat-poorly scribbled on smile setting her nerves off—and all she can think of is his toothy smile from way back when.

Puffy isn’t sure who is crying harder: herself or the skies. Both mourning the loss of something so precious, so beloved, that even if it were to be replaced, it wouldn’t be the same.

For weeks on end had she witnessed just how much he had changed since she last saw him. Seeing him act so cold when her memories of him were so warm. He still acted playful around her, but there was something so taut about his posture, so malicious about his smile, so ingenuine with his words that she couldn’t bring herself to fully believe that it wasn’t an act. She had seen how he had everyone’s strings wrapped on his fingers, pulling and pushing them as he pleased, as if they were the toys that she used to buy him from the marketplace. She had looked him in the eyes one day when he didn’t have his mask on, and she couldn’t recognize him. No longer was there a fiercely bright twinkle in his eye, ready to take on what the world would throw at him. No longer were his features defined yet welcoming, the kind that brought you in and made you feel safe. No longer did his smile turn up the whole way, making her heart swell with a certain pride and love that only a mother could feel.

This night, Puffy admits to herself, is the night that she accepts that she is no longer a mother, and Dream is no longer her son.

It hurts; her heart weeps for the loss of someone who was still alive yet painfully unrecognizable. She wants to say that it’s not true, that somewhere, her duckling is still there, the one that waited to trail after her as she traded in the market. The one that stood atop the little wooden stool in the kitchen, begging Niki to let him crack the eggs for the batter open. The one that never really blew on his spoonful of soup before taking a bite, making her and Niki dissolve into a fit of giggles as he whined about how hot the food was. She wants to turn the other way, act like she didn’t witness the things that she did, bring Dream close and hug him tight.

But she knows she can’t.

She knows that as unwavering as her love is—no, was—for her son, the man in the green sweater and netherite armor isn’t him. It’s painful to admit, but she knows her little duckling, her sweet boy, her Dream was long gone. And as much as she wants to reach out, travel to the highest mountains, reunite her crew and get out on the sea, walk the length of the entire world to get him back, she knows he’s nowhere to be found. Lost where no one, not even herself or his closest friends could reach him.

Puffy straightens her posture, not bothering to rid her face of the tears because of the thunderous rain. Her eyes land on Dream—the cruel, unforgivable, unrecognizable Dream—one last time before she turns around. Her instincts scream at her to throw a glance over her shoulder, her ears expect to hear the gentle patter of smaller footsteps following her, her eyes long to see the little boy she had taken in all those years ago. But she faces forward, swallowing thickly and heading to everyone to provide aid where needed.

The rain seems to pour down even harder, mourning the loss of a poor boy and his mother’s love for him.

For to lose a mother’s love means to become unlovable all the same.

#dreamwastaken #captain puffy #dream fanfic #mama puffy #duckling dream #i was trying to cope with canon and then i slipped and made angst help #fluff #angst #i really tried to keep it pure fluff and then i went oops

[filamero]

Alright, so some of the big brain people on Twitter are heavily to credit with this idea, but I figured I’d stick my own two cents in :)

Long story short, I think that dreamon influence is spreading over the server and could be to blame for the recent conflicts involving the Dream smp and Lmanberg (or, just Tommy, really.)

So. The bloodvines. They’ve been spreading pretty quickly, and theirs a lot of people who are starting to fall inter their “control” of sorts, including Puffy and Badboyhalo notably. The vines haven’t been explicitly connected to the dreamons yet, but there is reasonable evidence to suggest this. For one, awesamdude notably is immune to the effects of the vines, and people have theorized that it’s because his skin has gold armor on, which was used as protection against dreamons by Tubbo and Fundy. In the second dreamon stream, Tubbo had mistrusted Bad thinking him to be too close to dream, the one confirmed demonic case on the server, so narratively speaking there is precedent for him to be under demonic influence. Also, if I remember correctly, bad said in a brief line that the water from the holy lands had a weird effect on the vines... makes sense if they were demonic in origin.

Additionally, Dream was noticeably uncormfortable with the vines and the egg, trying to help Sam destroy them when they first encountered them... and just. Look:

This could be one of two things. It’s either quackity’s smiley face, alluding to the theories that he was being possessed by schlatt and was looking into demonic rituals to bring him back to life (which is a theory I’ve heard but honestly don’t know as much about) or it’s Dream’s smiley face, which has been used before as the symbol of the dreamons (most notably on the dreamon hunter uniforms, with the upside down smiley faces.) either way, paranormal associations.

If the bloodvines are indeed indicators of spreading dreamonic activity, there are some very interesting implications.

First off, Dream’s increasingly erratic and tyrannical behavior could easily be explained by the rise in demonic activity. In the first dreamon hunter stream, Fundy and Tubbo essentially split dream and dreamon into two separate entities, which probably can inhabit the same body, given that he seemed normal at first, but when aggravated, seemed to switch and become the dreamon before being snapped out of it by the reminder of his and Fundy’s engagement. At the end of the segment the dreamon manifested as DreamXD, but given that it was flying around and stuff and that it only lasted for seconds and it hasn’t been seen since, it probably isn’t a complete corporeal being. It’s likely it does need a host... which leads me to believe that it’s been subtly lurking inside Dream for a while now. That’s probably why Dream was uncomfortable with the spores, because he could feel it rousing the dreamon. It’s likely that as the dreamon influence grows, as evidenced by the spreading vines, Dream and the dreamon have been switching back and forth and no one has noticed. The dreamon is smart, and now that hunters know of its existence it could be trying to lay low and act like it’s the real Dream. I’ve been theorizing for a while now that dreamon influence was the reason for Dream’s flip flopping tendencies, between being fun loving and loyal to his friends and being chaotic and cruel, pulling the strings to strangle his enemies, and this only feeds those thoughts. These “inconsistencies” have only been heightened in the most recent streams. Dream goes from being drestructive and dishonest and manipulative to seeming almost genuinely happy and upbeat, like his old self, around Tommy... tommy, who lives in exile, far, far away from the bloodline infestation. If the bloodvines are what heighten the demonic influence, then it’s likely that the dreamon has less influence over Dream the farther away he goes, and the longer he stays away.

Next, the schlatt book. Honestly, we barely know anything about it. All we know is that whatever was in it was enough to get Dream or the dreamon on schlatt’s side. I think it’s more likely that schlatt was bargaining with the dreamon, not Dream. Given how he was acting (team chaos, giving Wilbur 11 stacks of tnt) I’d say it’s more likely that the dreamon was the dominant influence during this period of time. I think that what schlatt had, was knowlege of the dreamons. Knowlege of how to kill them. Notice that the only location that we’ve seen dead blood vines in is schlatt’s grave. And the dreamon would absolutely not want any of that information out to the public. Now, Dream was the one who said that the book was dangerous to him specifically if any of the information in it got out. I assume it’s Dream speaking there because they were building the jail at the time, which is a Dream activity, not a dreamon activity. There are two ways to interpret this. One is that if the knowlege got out, the dreamon would give up being subtle and just rage indiscriminately over the server and cause as much damage as it could. The second is that whatever way schlatt knew of dealing with the dreamon also harms the host... and while Dream probably is ready to make sacrifices, I don’t think he’s willing to give his life up—which is why Dream may be looking into other options, leading to...

The jail. The inescapable jail. We don’t know why it exists, we don’t know who it’s for. There’s basically no reason for its existence, the only people who could even remotely be considered for it are Tommy and Technoblade. Tommy, who is already well out of the way, and techno, who hasn’t ever really been a threat to Dream... they worked together to blow up manberg and then he retired far away in the frozen north. Unless...

Unless Dream is building it to contain himself. With the dreamon influence on the rise, its likely that Dream can tell that something is wrong. And if it’s just getting worse and worse, he’s probably getting really concerned. Because if the dreamon is behind all of Dream’s most evil acts, that means that Dream himself is probably still a good person... we just haven’t seen him all that often. But now that he’s spending time far away from the leylines of dreamonic influence, he’s starting to surface more and more, and is now trying to save the smp, and his old friends, from himself, by commissioning an inescapable prison in which to lock himself and the monster lurking inside him. One of the stronger theories behind this part is the name of the prison: Pandora’s vault. To be fair though, the name hasn’t actually been decided, but this is the one Dream was advocating for, so I think it’s valid to take into account. Pandora’s box was a mythological Greek object meant to contain the evils of the world... and what stronger evil is there on the server than the dreamons?

[filamero]

He is getting married

—

according to tumblr’s statistics, only a small percentage of people who like my posts actually reblog, so if you liked the art, go ahead and reblog. it’s free and you can always delete the reblog later. enjoy the content :]

[filamero]

The only one to blame on this wedding disaster is George, NOT DREAM.

Based on this clip, you could see that Dream was clearly against it.

Stop accusing Dream of cheating. First of all, the SMP Dream is different from this Dream, go watch their date to know this Dream. And, George was the one who kissed Dream without his consent. If you listen carefully to what happens next in that part of the video (go watch the video, it’s not in this clip, give Fundy more views and subscribe!), you could barely hear Dream saying no repeatedly because of the people talking over him. You could barely hear him say “he’s ridiculous” and “he’s a mockery to the wedding”.

I’m still in denial even after 2 days, I just want a happy Dream and a happy Fundy please.

[filamero]

(Kinda scared to post this- tw for implied noncon)

Wedding!Dream was innocent and was unwillingly pulled into a kiss by George and logged off because he felt shame and guilt because it happened, George is a jealous bastard who forced Dream into that position, in this essay I will- /rp

[filamero]

are you in denial of the wedding video too?

do not fear, for i, a semi-decent writer, have your back!

#dreamwastaken #itsfundy #fundylive #fundywastaken #they are my comfort ship your honor #fundywastaken fanfic #fwt shippers come get yall juice #fwt wedding