beezwrites - Tumblr blog

beezwrites · 2 years

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two sides of the same coin - dream redemption arc

(so it's the prison arc but cq doesn't go batshit and torture the celery stick for months)

Dream watches with mild curiosity as Quackity steps into the cell. He’s got a duffle bag with him, but he doesn’t seem to want anything to do with it. It clanks slightly as he sets it down on the obsidian flooring.

Quackity waves slightly. “Dream,” he hums, as a way of greeting. He notes his mask still in place, unblemished from his stay in this cell. He'd have thought Dream would remove it, being stuck in this box, but no. It still sits, a porcelain plate with a black painted smile.

That smile faces him now as Dream closes the journal he’d been scribbling in. “Quackity,” he nods back, setting the book down next to him. He crosses his legs criss-cross style and leans back on his palms, his hands pressed to the pillow behind him.

Quackity’s eyes slide away from the mask over the prisoner’s face, settling on the book instead. “What’s that?” He asks, walking closer. His gait is relaxed, not hostile. Trying to make him feel safe? Dream is slightly confused, but relents. He holds up the journal, waving it back and forth slightly.

“Just a diary of sorts,” he explains, “Helps to put things on paper sometimes.”

Quackity nods. “Journaling is a nice hobby to have,” he agrees, “Can I sit?” he continues, gesturing to the end of the bed.

“Knock yourself out,” Dream sighs, setting the journal back down. “So, what’s up?”

“In what context?” Quackity asks, pulling his feet into a criss-cross sit as well. “What’s going on outside, what’s related to you..?”

“Let’s start with why you’re here?” Dream tries, phrasing it as more of a question than a demand.

“Sure.” Quackity shrugs. “It’s a little bit of a long story, but I guess you got time.” he grins, gesturing to the cell around them.

Dream rolls his eyes, head tossing, but a confused little smile sits on his lips behind the mask. Why is Quackity acting like they’re friends? Last time he’d checked, everyone on this server would be happy to see him burnt at the stake.

He’ll take the change of tone, though. It’s refreshing.

“So, I’m a gambler. You know that,” Quackity starts, “And I lost a bet.”

“Occupational hazard,” Dream nods, giving a self-satisfied little chuckle.

Quackity waves him off, but smiles. “Yeah. Occupational hazard. Anyways, I lost a bet with someone who isn’t… alive.”

Dream tilts his head. “How on Exdii’s green earth did you accomplish that?”

“Glatt.” Quackity sighs. Dream snorts into his hand.

“Hey, listen, it wasn’t my fault!” Quackity complains.

“That, big man, is one hundred percent a your bad.” Dream chuckles. “Gambling is an addiction, you know.”

“I’m well aware,” Quackity deadpans, “but yeah, lost a bet with a ghost.”

“I’m assuming he wants to be brought back to life?” Dream asks, tilting his head to the other side, “I mean, if I were a ghost, that’d be my price.”

Quackity winces. “Yeah..” He nods, grimacing. “And, you know, you have the book and all that shit.”

“Well, I don’t actually have the physical book.” Dream corrects. “I burnt the bitch.”

Quackity looks a mixture of shocked and horrified. “What-”

“Not to worry.” Dream assures him, tapping his temple. “It’s all up here.”

Quackity breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, good. Scared the shit outta me.” He breathes, holding a hand to his chest.

“And you’re here for my big bad book of necromancy, right?” Dream asks, wiggling his fingers comically. “My witchy book of secrets?”

Quackity tries and fails to suppress a grin at the other’s antics. His gold tooth glints in the lava lighting and his eyes squint up into little half-moons. “Yeah. I need the book,” he nods, leaning forwards slightly, “because unfortunately, I’m a man of my word.”

“I wouldn’t call that unfortunate,” Dream muses, “It’s a hard quality to find in people a lot of the time.”

“I’m so glad the guy in the prison cell thinks I’m a good person.” Quackity snorts, leaning back onto his hands.

“Oh, shut up. I’ve done my share of shit, I know.” Dream waves him off.

“Yeah. I know.” Quackity says quietly, lips tightening into a small grimace.

Dream turns his face away. He doesn’t want to think about what he did.

“Anyways,” he says abruptly, bringing his hands together, “you want the book.”

“Correct.” Quackity finger guns at him.

“Right. What do I get in return?”

Quackity blanks. “What do you… want?” he asks slowly. His eyes flick to the duffle bag, but he shakes his head. If he can avoid it, he won’t even have to open it. Dream is willing to negotiate, that’s good.

For everyone involved.

Dream follows his gaze to the black bag. His curiosity piques, but he thinks it better not to ask. Yet, anyways.

“Well… let me think on that.” Dream hums. “There’s a lot of things I want, let me get them in order.”

His tone is genuine, not sarcastic or mocking. He leans back against the headboard, crossing his arms in a relaxed stance.

Quackity is content to let him think. In the meantime, he observes the changes the blond has gone through since he’d last seen him.

He’d expected Dream to’ve gotten skinnier, but no. The sleeves of the orange prison uniform are torn, revealing muscles that’ve obviously been well-maintained. Quackity supposes there’s not much else to do in this cell other than work out and write.

His hair is longer, as well. He remembers Sapnap telling him that Dream used to have light, golden blond hair that he kept in a scruffy mess on his head. Now, it’s a darker coppery blond, and it’s grown out; a lion’s mane around his face.

He seems reserved, as well. Quackity had walked in here expected to be berated, yelled at, attacked, anything other than this easy banter. But Dream is just genuinely negotiating with him; not something he does often.

Dream sits forwards abruptly, snapping the noiret from his reverie.

“Got something for me?” Quackity asks.

Dream nods. “I want out.”

Quackity bluescreens. “Pardon-?”

“You heard me, didn’t you?” Dream says. “I want out of here. I’m not saying jailbreak, I’m saying reasonable discharge.”

Quackity splutters. “Wh—I can’t get you out! What’s—how would that even work?”

Dream shrugs. “Talk to Sam, he’s the warden. And he likes you a helluva lot better than he likes me.”

Quackity sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Once again, his eyes flick to the bag he’d set down. He shudders violently; he doesn’t want to stoop to that.

“Okay, what the hell is in that bag?” Dream asks. “You keep looking at it like its got hellspawn in it.”

Quackity waves him off. “Nothing important. It’s something I don’t want.”

Dream sighs. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But what do you say?” He continues, leaning forwards excitedly, “Let me out?”

Quackity holds up his hands, a sign to tell Dream to calm down. “Okay, okay. Now you have to give me a sec to think.”

“Yessir,” Dream hums, leaning back. The painted face of his mask sets on the noiret as he drops his head in his hands to think.

Quackity can get Sam to agree, he knows that. The problem is making sure Dream doesn’t start more trouble once he’s out.

He knows the others will probably blacklist him for this. Dream is dangerous, he reminds himself. His methods of revenge involve several breakings of the laws of nature and seemingly endless psychological torture. He’s not a nice guy.

But for the way he’s acting now, he hardly thinks the blond is gonna shoot for murder as soon as he’s out. And the mention of his crimes unease him—he might actually be sorry.

“Okay, okay.” Quackity says softly. “Idea.”

“Hit me,” Dream responds, leaning forwards eagerly.

“I'll get Sam to agree to let you out, yada yada, but I’ll have to keep an eye on you.” He says warningly.

“I figured,” Dream agrees easily.

“You’re aware I have my country, right? Well, it’s more of a city, but you know—my place.” Quackity continues, “You’d probably be living there for a while.”

“Free housing? Let’s go.” Dream grins. Quackity regards him, unimpressed, and Dream shrinks back a little.

“Sorry, sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.” he backpedals.

“So, what do you say? That sound good?” Quackity asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. And while you’re doing that, I’ll write down what I know from the book,” Dream agrees happily.

“Good,” Quackity hums warmly. “Shake?”

Dream shakes his hand firmly, still smiling like a dope. Quackity can hear it in his voice as he speaks again. “Alright then, that seals it.” Dream hums, laying back in the bed. “You go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

Quackity stands up and takes the bag, smiling as well. “Start writing then, yeah?”

“Yessir,” Dream chuckles, standing up to walk to his chest. “Now—skedaddle.”

Quackity waves, then reaches up to press his comm. “Sam? Let me out… no,” He grins, looking to Dream cheekily, “he was behaved, don’t worry. I need to talk to you, though.”

After the lava drops again and Dream is left in the cell alone once more, he settles a fresh book against his knees and begins to write.

Materials needed…

In Las Nevadas, the sky shines with clear stars outside of Quackity’s window. He sits slowly in his chair, rests his elbows on his desk, and drops his head in his hands.

He wonders if this is a mistake. If he could just never go back to the prison, leave Dream waiting forever.

But that’s cruel. And beyond that, he wouldn’t get the book if he didn’t go back.

He’d never get Schlatt off his back if he didn’t keep his end of the deal.

He finds his mind drifting back to Dream. His hopeful stanceas he proposed his price, the giddy smile showing in his voice when he’d gotten accepted. The way his hand had purposefully lingered over Quackity’s, holding onto the contact as long as he could. How long had it been since Dream was just touched, he wonders? How long had it been since someone patted his shoulder, brushed his hair away from his forehead, anything?

How long has it been for Quackity?

He pushes the question away with a violent shake of his head. That’s not important. None of these thoughts are important. They’re irrelevant.

He raises his head, scrubbing over his face with a long, exhausted sigh. His wings twitch irritably in their binder, and he huffs. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out, leaving it laying over the back of his chair. The binder goes next, and his wings are freed.

He stretches them slowly, wincing as the fragile bones pop from being bound against his back so tightly. Despite the slight pain, once he’s past it, he sighs in relief and lolls his head back. The cool air feels like heaven against his bent and cramped feathers. He hasn’t preened in forever, but there are more important things than that, and it hasn’t gotten too bad yet.

He looks at the piles of paperwork on the desk in front of him, and immediately closes his eyes. Too much work, waaaaay too much work.

He gets up, walking away from his desk and taking his shirt with him. He lays it over his shoulders, not caring to put his arms through the sleeves.

Making his way down the hall, to his bedroom, his mind begins to wander again. Back to Dream.

Where will he stay? At the hotel across the casino, expenses paid by the president.

How will Quackity monitor him? Daily check-ins at the end of the day.

When will he be able to arrive? As soon as Sam agrees to let him out.

All these questions echo in his mind, bouncing around faster than ping-pong balls. His mind doesn’t quiet when he makes it to his room, nor when he dims the lights to sleep. It doesn’t quiet when he showers, or while he dresses for bed. It doesn’t even cease its violent whirring when he flops back onto his bed, pulling the quilt around himself.

It only slows when he begins to drift off from pure exhaustion, leaving him with the image of Dream, already retrieving an empty book as the lava had begun to drop.

Hopeful for a promise made to be kept.

#writing #writing community #dsmpblr #quackblr #ao3 #creative writing #writblr #writer #writers of tumblr

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beezwrites · 2 years

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clutch to your beliefs and bleed on the double edge (ranboo villain arc concept)

Ranboo opens his eyes slowly, but closes them almost immediately as the dim light filtering in from the canopy above just about blinds him. A searing pain explodes behind his eyes even as he digs the ball of his palms into them to block out as much of the light as possible.

Canopy?

Light?

Despite every inch of his body screaming in agony, he sits up slowly with a miserable groan and hears the rustle of fallen leaves below him. Birds chirp around him, seemingly unbothered by his sudden appearance. A stream gurgles somewhere nearby; he shudders at the sound.

A forest?

A sound in the background of his mind distracts him, a rhythmic bumping. Bumping? No, beating.

‘Heartbeat,’ his mind whispers.

Slowly, shakily, he raises a clawed hand to his chest and presses.

There it is, a hard, galloping bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.

In the beginning of limbo, his heartbeat had stopped. You don’t realize how much sound your body makes on a daily basis until it stops. And when it had stopped, the silence had been so glaringly obvious it’d almost driven him insane. How had he kept consciousness if his heart no longer beat, if his blood no longer pumped? How could he still be forming these thoughts if his body is naught but a corpse?

But that was when he was on dry land.

No, after a bit, waves started to pull in and close on him. A rising tide that never stopped, it lapped at his feet and blistered his skin, driving him to a wall. And when the wall stopped him, he was submerged.

Eventually, the waves had pulled him from the wall, out into open water. Every inch of his body screamed in pain. Sizzling, steaming blisters raced along his skin, painting with a brush of white-hot torture.

He can’t remember how long he’d spent gasping and choking as salty water scorched his body and burned his eyes. He vaguely remembers catching his horn on one of his claws and slicing it clean in half in his wild, galloping try for escape.

The strength of a ⋏⟒⟟⏁⊑⟒⍀; a neither.

The memory of his childhood nickname disorients him for a minute, but calms his heart as well. When he opens his eyes once again the sun doesn’t burn nearly as much, and he looks around.

Snow has settled on him; he hadn’t even registered the cold until now. It’s bitter, but a welcome change from the burning blisters covering his body. He looks up and feels snow fall from his hair. Distantly, he registers that he should probably stand up, but the way that his body complains at even taking too deep a breath discourages him greatly.

So for now he sits in the snow, watching tiny flakes fall silently. His eyes slip shut and the ache in his body dissipates over the course of hours, minutes, days maybe. His mind drifts to the thoughts he’d banned himself from in limbo.

How is Tubbo? He wonders if he’s the same as he was when he’d died. And Tommy, how is Tommy? The thoughts of his friends bring him soft comfort, and he smiles for the first time in he doesn’t know how long.

All he knows is when he opens his eyes, snow crunches behind him and the sun has disappeared.

He turns slowly, just his head to put less strain on his body.

A white porcelain mask, a painted black smile. Tufts of copper blond hair sticking out under a dark viridian hood, a golden clasp under.

Ranboo turns back forwards, letting out a shaky breath.

“Hi, Dream.” He says quietly. He puts a hand to his throat, shocked by how different his voice sounds. Raspy and hoarse, almost a growl.

The figure moves in front of him, crouching so they’re eye level.

“Took me a bit to find you.” He hums, his voice muffled by the mask.

Ranboo’s ear flicks irritably. “Take the mask off.” He snaps, tail thwipping against the snow once, a sharp sound. “It’s not like I’ve never seen your face. And it’s fucking with your voice.”

Dream chuckles, surprised. “Limbo sure did a number on you, huh?” he muses lightheartedly. Despite being verbally dismissive, a gloved hand slips up to remove his mask, pushing the hood back as the white porcelain plate rests upon his head.

Ranboo takes in his face. More scars lacerate the skin, but other than that, nothing too important.

“You brought me back.” He says simply, tilting his head to the right. “Why?”

Dream sits as well, leaning back on his palms. “Questions, questions. Who knows why I do the things I do?” He hums absently, a grin spreading along freckled features. “Maybe I was bored, maybe I wanted to shake things up. Maybe I think you deserved another chance, maybe I need you for a favor.” He waves a hand as he speaks, absently animating his speech.

Then he leans forwards, clasping his hands in front of him. “Maybe I have a gift for you.”

Ranboo’s tail curls into a question mark as his head tilts to the side.

“A gift? Dream, this doesn’t make sense. You brought me back from the dead to give me a gift? That’s crazy.” He scoffs.

Dream shrugs. “Crazy and genius often go hand in hand, do they not?” He hums, picking a leaf up off the ground and spinning it absently. “Point is, I have something for you, and I don’t want to give you a reason just yet. Do you want it?”

Ranboo huffs. “Fine.” He says warily. “Hand it over.”

Dream raises an eyebrow, cracking another infuriating grin. “Who is this demanding asshole?” He chuckles, reaching into his inventory. “What happened to yes Dream, of course Dream, no, you’re right Dream?”

Ranboo’s tail lashes once more against the snow, snowflakes lifting up at the place of impact as a low growl settles in his throat.

“Shut it.” He spits. “Twenty years in hell will change a guy. Fork it over or get the hell outta my sight.”

Dream sighs, pulling out the ‘gift.’

It’s a netherite axe, glowing with the soft purple light of enchantment.

Ranboo’s eyes trace the weapon quickly, tensing up. “What’s that for?”

“You.” Dream answers simply, dropping the axe in the snow between them. “I named it for you.”

Ranboo picks it up slowly, running over it with thin, agile claws. The name shows in his inventory. “⍀⟒⎐⟒⋏☌⟒,” He rumbles, tongue sliding over the syllables easily. “Sometimes I forget you speak Endre.” He shakes his head.

Dream raises his hands expectantly, grinning. “Ah, ah? Whaddya think? Nice, right?”

Ranboo’s ears flick again, and he rolls his eyes. “Why, pardon me asking, is this named Revenge?”

Dream leans to the left, still wearing that shit-eating grin. “Golly gee wilikers, I wonder.”

He leans forwards again, lime green eyes hardening to seriousness again. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want to kill Sam.”

And Ranboo almost does. His mouth opens, but the words die on his tongue as he realizes that’s a lie. He wants to kill Sam. He wants to see him crumple to the ground in a pool of his own blood, to see him suffer and know his limbo will be a thousand times worse. Because if his limbo had been hell, Sam’s had better be fucking doomsday incarnate.

Dream takes his lack of answer as confirmation. “Yeah.” He hums. “While you were alive, people walked all over you, did they not?” He continues.

“They did.” Ranboo answers shortly.

“Mhm-hm. How abouuttt… we give them a taste of their own medicine?” Dream asks.

“Not Tubbo.” Ranboo snaps. “Or Tommy.”

Dream raises his hands in surrender. “Of course. I can leave them alone. I have one question, though.”

Ranboo tilts his head. “What.”

“How partial are you to Quackity?”

He looks wary. “Why…?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed all my new scars, have you not?” Dream asks, tracing his face.

“It was Quackity?” Ranboo asks. “What did you do to him to piss him off?”

“He tortured me in that prison.” Dream says blankly. “I wanna get him back.”

Ranboo is a little shocked. “He tortured you?” He asks, almost incredulous. Then, a small grin splits his face.

“Loser-” He snorts. “Imagine getting tortured.”

Dream’s eyes go wide. “Woooow. Limbo really changed you.” He muses, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Ranboo full on cackles, ignoring him. “Did you cry? I bet you cried.” He laughs, holding his ribs as his body protests the stress.

Dream is unimpressed. “You up for it or not?”

Ranboo waves his hand absently, still chuckling. “Sure, sure. As long as you stay away from my family.” His eyes glint dangerously. “And I promise I don’t need this axe to kill you, Dream.”

Dream nods, holding out his hand and grinning. “Shake?”

Ranboo shakes his hand. “It’s official.” He hums. Then, he pulls Dream in by his hand, growling lowly.

“Try any shit and you’re dead meat, Clay.”

Dream nods. “Understood.”

“Then we have a deal.”

Tubbo feels a shiver go through him as he hauls logs for the new cabin. The shiver is so violent that he almost drops the bundles of wood.

He brushes it off, but he can’t shake the familiar tingle at the base of his horns.

#writeblr #writer community #writing community #writers of tumblr #creative writing #ao3 #dsmpblr #ranboo #villain arc #villains

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