#> vegas team au 2.0

[dreamsclock]

💇

VEGAS TEAM 2.0!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I SPOKE ABOUT IT THAT I CAN'T ACTUALLY REMEMBER IF I'VE POSTED THIS OR NOT. oh well have the fucked up group of fucked up guys

warnings: instability, torture, trauma, unhealthy relationships, torture, gaslighting, mental health issues, general dark shit

“Hey, Dream,” Wilbur says cheerfully one morning, bright and early, “your hair is getting long. You could use a haircut. Thoughts from the group?”

Dream is cringing back before anyone can get a word out, almost overturning the coffee pot - an unwise move, because, as Wilbur knows, Quackity is a nightmare before his coffee, and he doesn’t think anyone would be able to tear him away from Dream before he managed to take his last canon life if the coffee had been spilt. As it is, the coffee remains in the pot, and Quackity only grunts irritably, hands curled around a cup in his hands: it’s too early for him to be in his usual trigger-happy mood, which Wilbur supposes he can’t fault him for. He doesn’t think Quackity is used to waking up at seven in the morning - looks like he might bite the head off anyone who points it out.

Beside him, Sam, clearly hoping for one morning of relative peace, sinks down further in his chair. 

“I asked for thoughts,” Wilbur says, rather put out, “and I get silence instead. Use your big boy words, Dream. We’re a team here. It’s good to hear everyone’s opinions, right?”

Dream is stiff and unyielding. Behind his mask, Wilbur catches his lips press into a tight white line, watches them open and close for a second, clearly struggling.

“...I don’t want my hair cut.” It’s the first words Dream has spoken all morning, save from the hoarse good morning Wilbur makes them all say over breakfast. “It’s- It’s fine. It’s a fine length.”

Wilbur hums, clearly disagreeing, but remaining chipper. “Sam? What’re your thoughts?”

“I think that I don’t care,” Sam mutters, sounding tired, “I don’t think it’s too big a deal, Wilbur.”

“Well, if we can’t make small decisions together, how are we going to make the bigger ones?” Wilbur prods. “Think of it as a team training exercise!”

And he watches the collective reaction at the word team - watches Sam wince, Dream twitch, Quackity roll his eyes with a half-formed snarl rising on his lips - and thinks that if every morning could be this fun, maybe they’d be far more successful in their business ventures, because it’s all about the tension, isn’t it? It’s all about poking the sore spots with a sword and grinning when they fall apart, and the sooner his fellow team members can deal with that, the sooner they can move on to doing it to others, too.

“Wilbur,” Dream says, words quiet, tripping over themselves, “I don’t want to-”

“Ah, ah, Dream, don’t be rude,” Wilbur replies, making Dream flinch back, huddling deeper in his hoodie, “we haven’t even heard from Quackity yet. What do you think, Big Q? Do you think Dream’s hair would look better with a bit of a tidy-up?”

Quackity scowls around his mouthful of coffee. “I don’t give a fuck,” he says plainly, “I really couldn’t give a shit, Wilbur, it doesn’t matter.”

“But you did such a good job on it before!” Wilbur wheedles playfully, pleased at Sam’s visceral reaction to this: he realises what’s going on quicker than the others, shooting Wilbur a warning look and beginning to get to his feet. If he thinks he can avoid the drama this easily, he’s wrong - Wilbur’s eyes flicker to Dream, and quick as lightning, Dream tugs Sam back to his seat, looking nauseous as doing so. “Thank you, Dream. Sam, don’t you agree with me? I mean, I wasn’t there, but Dream’s told me all about it: you two actually got to see him after that, didn’t you? Sam, how would you rate Quackity’s hairdressing abilities? You can use a scale one to ten if you’d like: that might be quite smart, actually.”

Sam carefully doesn’t respond, staring at the floor as though he wants it to open up and swallow him. Wilbur stares, cheery, letting the silence engulf them all.

“Yeah,” Sam eventually says, clearly unhappy with the topic at hand, “No. I thought- Prime, Wilbur, what do you want me to say? It was with shears: it wasn’t a haircut, that’s not why it happened.”

You know that, his sharp gaze tells him, and Wilbur smiles. It doesn’t particularly matter what he knows in the end. Sam had spoken: that’s enough for him.

“I think you’d look good with shorter hair,” he tells Dream, and the younger goes still, fingers freezing from where they’d been anxiously drumming against the side of his leg, “Quackity, are you up to another haircutting job any time soon?”

“I don’t-” Dream begins.

“If he doesn’t shut the hell up, then yeah,” Quackity snaps, and there’s the Quackity Wilbur likes - the flash of something darker, the dark cloud in his eyes that makes Dream inch back and Sam stiffen, there you are, Q, Wilbur thinks fondly, good morning, “I’m sick of hearing his fucking voice.”

Dream’s throat bobs, and when he moves, it’s jerky, stilted. “You’re not going to touch me,” he says, glancing to Wilbur for confirmation, who only smiles, and recoiling when Quackity snarls, a cruel shadow of a sneer, leaning across the table to Dream, “You're not-”

“Wilbur isn’t here for him to be your knight in shining armour, Dream,” Quackity tells him, pseudo-sweetly, “Wilbur won’t be able to stop be in time if I wanted to take a pair of shears to your hair. Wilbur wouldn’t be able to do a single damn thing, Dream, and even if he could, I doubt he would.”

Wilbur sits back, sipping at his tea - it’s cold by now, the way he likes it - and smiles serenely at Dream’s stuttered attempt at a reply and Quackity’s growing anger. It’s too early for popcorn, which is a shame, because otherwise he’d be having a field day right now.

It ends like it usually does: anti-climactic, with Dream’s eyes glazing over sharply, Quackity storming out of the building with a muttered curse, and Sam heading to his room, presumably to bemoan their team in private so Wilbur has no ammunition to light. Annoying, but Wilbur thinks he’s satisfied with the events of today so far. 

They still have tonight, anyway. And the rest of the week, and the rest of the month, and however long it takes until this whole business endeavour goes up in flames and takes them all with it. Eyes lighting up at the thought of it all, he turns to his ally, giving him a brief considering look.

“I think your hair looks fine,” Wilbur tells an unresponsive Dream, whose breaths are ragged, pouring himself another cup, “I don’t know what they were talking about. Maybe we could get Quackity to braid it later or something instead. That might be nice. What do you think?”

Dream twitches, and Wilbur counts the morning as a success.

[addictedtostorytelling]

i’ve been rewatching csi from the beginning (because i’ve never been able to make it past season 9 without grissom) and i’m finally up to the end of season 7… i have like 3 episodes left and i’m SAD. this team dynamic is so special to me and i feel this slow crawl of devastation that i’m (again) witnessing the end of what has been for 7 seasons. soon sara won’t be her usually cute and passionate self (in love too) that we get see in season 7, and she’ll leave, and then warrick is going to die, and grissom will leave… and nothing will ever be the same on this show. i don’t know how to get over it. how did you do it? how do i move on? how do i mourn this team dynamic that i’ve loved for so long and get used to new variations of the team? god, i wish grissom came back for a proper full ep earlier than the freaking series finale and the new show. i’m just… not sure how to enjoy without them all 😭

hi, anon!

yours is a very heartfelt question, and, unfortunately, i am probably the wrong person to answer it, because i never really "got over" the changes to the show post-s7, either.

not gonna lie to you: i have only watched the s10-s15 era of the show once through in its entirety.

the s8 and s9 angst i can deal with in order to get to the happy gsr ending in episode 09x10 "one to go." however, i hate all later seasons of the show beyond that point with all the salt that is in me, not only because of the cast turnover but also because the writing and production values of the show changed so much as to make the series (and the remaining characters) unrecognizable.

most of the time, i just straight-up ignore the fact that those seasons exist, preferring to imagine my own canon-divergent au version of the show (starting from the end of s7) instead.

i really do not engage with them unless someone sends me an ask.

that so, i can't exactly tell you how to learn to accept the new team or get comfortable in that altered narrative landscape. i never did, on either count.

instead, my advice is this: keep in mind you're not obligated to finish watching csi if doing so isn't enjoyable to you. you fell in love with a particular group of characters, story universe, and cast dynamic, and if those things went away or ship of theseus'd themselves into a production that is fundamentally different from the one you fell in love with in every way save name, you don't have to stick around anymore.

remember: you're watching this show as a hobby, not a job.

the #1 rule of fandom is to follow your bliss, so if you're not naturally motivated to finish the series���and especially if the thought of doing so is actively causing you dread—then you don't have to force the issue.

give yourself permission to say, "for me, the series ends with episode 08x01 'dead doll' or episode 09x10 'one to go' (or wherever you want to draw your line in the sand)" and then walk away.

if you need closure, write your own au version of what happens after that point or else find some fanfic author whose vision aligns with your own. keep living blissfully in your s1-s7 happy place with the original team graveyard, where grissom is the boss and sara stays in vegas and warrick doesn't die and they all keep solving cases together until retirement.

and then don't sweat it.

you're not being a "bad fan" or letting anyone down, and there's still plenty of material in the early seasons for you to engage with.

now.

if you absolutely feel you must finish the show (for whatever reason), i guess one thing i might suggest is to engage with work from fans who genuinely enjoy the later seasons. i know there are some folks in this fandom who adore the new characters and team graveyard version 2.0. they write meta and fic and make gifsets about it, and they have a total blast doing so. hanging around their blogs might help you to find things to appreciate.

another thing you might do is give yourself permission to "cherry-pick." watch just to see what happens. if there's stuff you like, go ahead and incorporate it into your conception of the show. the rest, discard. as i said above, you're not obligated to enjoy the show in a certain way and especially not "across the board." so if you like the fact sara has mother-in-law drama but hate the fact she gets divorced? then keep the first thing and toss out the second. if canon makes a stupid-ass decision, you can elect to ignore it.

and regardless of whether you ultimately decide to finish out your watch-through or not, don't forget: the beginning of the story—i.e., those seven golden seasons you so love—will always be there, and you can return to them as often as you want. the beauty of a story is that it exists in perpetuity. grissom, catherine, warrick, nick, sara, and greg will all still be there waiting for you, and you can continue to enjoy their dynamics however you best prefer them.

good luck, anon! if you choose to continue your watch, i hope you enjoy yourself. if not, then i hope you have fun mentally setting up shop in the early seasons.

i certainly do!

thanks for the question! please feel welcome to send another any time.

[cdroloisms]

vegas team 2.0 lets go !!

vegas team au 2.0 my beloved !!! 

if you don’t know what the vegas team au 2.0 is, it’s an au that a couple of my twitter friends and i developed (notably, @stabbysideblog and @dreamsclock) as a post-canon version of sparrow’s vegas team au, which had c!dream, a post-revival c!wilbur, and c!quackity working together at las nevadas. 

this au exists much in the same vein, but exists post-canon (and therefore, post torture from c!quackity) and adds c!sam to the crew - it’s essentially four really, really messed up people screwing things up in las nevadas and being completely AWFUL to each other. it’s a very messed up group dynamic, 50% angst 50% crack 0% fluff or healing (...unless ;) ) and it’s absolutely one of my favorite aus at the moment. 

anyway, have this ficlet for the au i wrote a little bit ago that basically goes into how these four end up working together !! 

tw: implied torture, unhealthy relationships (SO many unhealthy relationships), manipulation, threats, emotional distress, mental instability

When Sam first sees the two figures standing on top of the roof of Las Nevadas, the first thing that comes to his mind is oh no, I have a bad feeling about this.

The feeling is far from foreign; a "bad feeling" has been his life for the past week ever since Dream and Wilbur had disappeared from Pandora's Vault seemingly without a trace. He's tried to keep the knowledge under wraps, only telling Bad and Ant to send them on a manhunt to find the prisoner (a lost cause if he's ever seen one; the two have hunted Dream before, and all of them know that there is no way they're finding the man if he doesn't want to be found) while he and Quackity plan for the coming storm. And there will be a coming storm, he's sure - he's heard enough of Dream's desperate, deranged plans of revenge voiced in near incoherent screams through bubbling lava to think that he will come out of the cell with anything close to mercy in his heart.

Unfortunately, there's been little to nothing from the pair of fugitives running around the server, his communicator chat still buzzing with Tommy's usual shouting and Puffy's usual invitations to tea and Technoblade's usual cryptic "technoblade" messages sporadically throughout the day. It's frustratingly, maddeningly normal, and each day of waiting for the other shoe to drop only leaves him even closer to snapping completely. In a twisted, bitter sort of way, he's almost relieved at the sight of the people standing on the polished quartz roof of the casino; at least now he'll finally get some answers.

Next to him, Quackity narrows his eyes. "Nobody should know about this place," he says, lips twisting into a tight frown.

Sam shrugs, shoulders heavy and tense under netherite. "Do you think-"

"-that it's our dynamic fuckin' duo? Yeah," he breathes out, short and quick through his teeth, and his wings stretch and flutter behind him, "I think it might be."

The figures become clearer as they step closer, silhouettes dark and thrown into harsh relief against the backlighting of the sun behind them. One of them is definitely wearing armor - netherite, from the looks of it - and both are very clearly armed. Wonderful.

The taller turns towards them, gestures with a wide sweep of their arm. "Big Q!"

Sam jumps at the voice; Quackity smiles humorlessly. "Wilbur."

Wilbur turns towards the other figure - Dream, for sure then - and they seem to talk, though they are far too far away for Sam to make out anything they say. Dream seems to hand something to Wilbur, and seconds later twin dots of bluish-green arc smoothly towards the ground in front of Sam's feet. He steps back, watching from the corner of his eye as Quackity does the same, and sure enough Wilbur, and then Dream, land on the grass where their enderpearls hit the ground.

"It's been a long time, Big Q, Sam," Wilbur smiles, tight-lipped, confident, tipping his head at each of them as he says their names. He's not wearing any armor save for a crossbow - enchanted - slung loosely over his hip and a netherite sword hanging off of his belt. "How have things been?"

"Cut the crap, Wilbur." The smile stays on Quackity's face, but his eye is dark and cold and dangerous. He's changed - of course he has, you can't do what he's done in Pandora without changing, but the sight of his expression still sends a disturbed shiver down Sam's spine. "You want something."

Wilbur, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed at all. "We've been doing pretty well - I think we've made quite some progress, considering how little time it's been since we've escaped that prison - nice build, by the way, Sam." His voice is lilting, almost sincere, and he looks over at Sam with a laughing light in his eyes like they're sharing an inside joke. "It's really quite impressive - what do you think, Dream?"

Dream doesn't seem to respond; he's all decked out again, netherite covering him from head to toe, the enchanted metal plates completely dwarfing the man hidden within them. His hands clutch at a golden apple, knuckles white against the golden skin, and a plain shield is strapped over his left arm as well a hulking enchanted axe on his back. They've been busy, it seems, and Sam's teeth grind against each other; he's not sure, if it comes down to it, that this is a fight that he and Quackity can win.

"Wilbur," Quackity repeats, impatience creeping into his tone, "What do you want?"

Wilbur smiles wider; it makes Sam uneasy, like Wilbur had been waiting for this, waiting for their desperation to send them at the devil's table with paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

"You're a businessman, aren't you, Big Q? You know how business deals work - so let's talk business. I think we can come up with something agreeable, what do you think?"

Quackity huffs a short laugh- "And what's stopping me and Sam from putting a sword through your gut?"

Wilbur smiles, sharp-edged. "Well, Big Q. Resurrection magic- it's quite interesting, really. Dream was explaining it to me, you know. And here's the thing; how many lives do you think I have right now?"

What- oh. "You have all of your lives back."

"Oh, no, Sam, I'm not saying that, exactly," Wilbur waves his hand flippantly, "I'm just saying you don't know, you know? And if I were to- say, have more than one life, and you were to kill me, well," he shrugs, a thoughtful look on his face. "We were smart enough to set our beds far away from the prison, of course. It would be an awful shame if people were to find out about what the perfect, responsible Warden was allowing in his inescapable prison, wouldn't it?"

No, no, no-

"So you're blackmailing us," Quackity's eyebrows are furrowed, jaw clenched tightly. Wilbur tips his head back and laughs.

"Oh, this isn't a threat, Big Q! Just a few- let's just call them hypotheticals." He begins to pace back and forth, gait smooth and unburdened, "I'm just saying that you two are powerful right now, you know? And it's great! I love this- what was it, Las Nevadas, you're calling it? It's great. It's absolutely magnificent. I'm just saying that you might want to be careful about what people end up finding out; you know people can be about power, on this server, and it would be such a shame to see this place burned to the ground."

Quackity's wings tense, and Sam can already see the younger's mouth opening and his fingers beginning to glow white with him reaching into his inventory, and oh prime if things escalate here then they're so, so screwed-

"Business!" He shouts louder than he wants, Quackity's head snapping towards him, lips still slightly parted from the words that he never got to say, and Sam ignores him to focus his attention on Wilbur, still staring at them with a smile playing on his lips. "You said you would be willing to talk business, right, Wilbur?"

"Yes, of course! Let's talk business. What do you think, Quackity?" Wilbur pauses, looks Quackity in the eye, and the younger glares but doesn't say anything. "Oh, don't worry too much, Big Q. I honestly think that it'll be good for all of us - a mutually beneficial arrangement, if you will."

"Wilbur, just," Sam sighs, fights against the incoming headache. "Can you please just get to the point?"

"Of course, Sam," Wilbur all but chirps, "So- we have something you want, and you have something we want. I say we pool our resources- our knowledge, Dream's combat prowess, your protection and items - and make something better."

"Pool our resources- wait wait wait, you mean you want to fuckin'-"

"I don't know how much Dream has told you, but I've been dead for a pretty long time; there really isn't all that much to do in the Void, you know. I've gotten pretty bloody good at cards, if I do say so myself." Wilbur grabs Dream, ignoring the way he flinches as he slings an arm around his shoulders, "What do you say? Have room in Las Nevadas for two more, Big Q?"

Sam blinks. Prime, give him strength. "What?"

Quackity hisses quietly, "You want to help with Las Nevadas? Both of you?" Sam watches as he turns his glare from Wilbur to Dream, and oh, so that's what this is about. He points his thumb jerkily in the direction of the masked man, watching, as Dream ducks his head down, unable to back away too far with Wilbur's arm still braced behind his neck. "And why should I work with him?"

"Two in one deal, Quackity, you have both of us or nothing at all," Wilbur drawls, "Besides, I know you've wanted the power of the resurrection book - and done quite a lot to get it! I'm really very impressed. Of course, we couldn't simply give it to you, but with us on your side, there's hardly even a difference." Quackity opens his mouth, looking like he's about to protest- "And, really, it would be nice to have Dream on your side in case the Blade comes for your other eye, no?"

His mouth shuts with an audible click, one-eyed glare meeting Wilbur's all-too easy expression, before finally nodding jerkily. "Fine. As long as he doesn't cause too much trouble."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Wilbur claps Dream on the back, and he curls into himself more, arms raising up to his head. "You've done more than enough to keep him obedient."

"We'll have to write out the terms later," Quackity presses on. "Don't want either of you trying anything. I've put so much fuckin' time into this place, I'm not letting you fuck it up, you hear?"

"Of course, Big Q," Wilbur's smile is jagged, all teeth, as he holds his arm out between them. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Quackity breathes in, out, looks over at Sam. There's a question written in the tight edge of his shoulders, in the way his wings are braced and held to his sides - are we sure about this?

Sam tips his head in a shallow nod. Do we really have a choice?

Quackity takes Wilbur's hand, shakes it. "Then welcome to the team."

Wilbur laughs, and it sounds like flames and explosions and the ground shaking beneath your feet, burns with the cold heat of smoke and ash - and Sam knows, with a bitter, searing certainty, that this is going to collapse around them in a blaze of glory, that they've all but signed their death warrants, have nothing left but to wait for the countdown timer to hit zero and blow this place up to kingdom come. Wilbur meets his eyes - dark, dead, grey like cinders and gunpowder - and he knows that the other man is thinking the same thing.

"I think this is the start to something beautiful," Wilbur says, and Sam grits his teeth as he steps into the building.

Something beautiful, indeed.

[oldguardhc]

Old Guard hc #32

Leverage AU pt.2 for @that-golden-lyre and @silentheartedone (pt.1)

Andy has a very distinctive fighting style. It’s one part Krav Maga and one part insanity.

The first time Nicky has to flirt with someone for a mission, Nicky ends up breaking a vase over the poor guy’s head and jumping out of a 4th story window

The team swears that Booker survives on grape soda and grape soda alone. When Joe broke into Booker’s pad, he was horrified to find only grape soda in his fridge

Nile has a gift for making everything sound judgemental. Let’s go steal a body. Let’s go steal a concert. Let’s go steal a President. Your van is starting to smell, Booker.

One time Andy showed up to HQ with an achy shoulder and told them not to look up what happened in Kuwait last night. The team filters out all mentions of Kuwait on their phones and computers because if this is anything like Bangkok...look, they’re just trying to do some self-care for once.

For their first date, Joe takes Nicky to the states, Kentucky to be more precise. They steal 500lbs of gold, not as much as they could have stolen but Joe’s reseller was only willing to take 450lbs. The last fifty is kept purely as a memento.

When they have to blow up their current office because of Dizzy, Booker buys Nile’s entire apartment complex. Nile still doesn’t think it’s right Booker can just waltz into her apartment and start drilling holes in the wall in the name of renovation.

The hardest thing the team ever had to do was tell Joe his performance last night was amazing. Cats was already an awful musical. Joe...he made the original look like a masterpiece.

Nile and Joe are a different kind of dangerous together. Nile has an uncle that used to do some shows in Vegas and he taught her some things. Mental manipulation things. Joe built his whole career off of manipulating people. When they go after a mark together, it’s freaking sad how easy they make a mark do their bidding.

The team buys lots of grape soda when they have to sacrifice Lucille 2.0 - they’re not going to enable a former alcoholic, family doesn’t do that. So they sit in Nile’s living room, drink grape soda and talk about what a wonderful van Lucille 2.0 was. She always had the right costumes. She had the processing power to hack the pentagon. She could take bullets like a champ. She was not a swimmer. Joe gets a shove for that one. She was a good van, the very best.

[jordstyle]

Underpicker Wett-Strategie – Over-Under Wetten

In diesem Artikel geht es um die Sportwetten-Strategie „Underpicker“, bei der wir Wetten darauf abschließen, dass weniger als X Tore fallen. X kann dabei ein Torwert zwischen 3,5 und 0,5 sein. Wir haben hier verschiedene Unter-Strategien. Bevor ich das genauer erkläre, möchte ich mich und unsere Arbeit kurz vorstellen.

Wer ist der Underpicker?

Ich bin Radek Vegas. Ich bin eigentlich Sportjournalist, habe mich aber in den letzten Jahren auf Glücksspiel spezialisiert. Sowohl als schreibender Experte als auch aktiver Spieler. Mein Traum mit Kartenspielen Geld zu verdienen ist durch einen anderen ersetzt worden als ich 2016 Vater wurde. Seitdem ist ein Leben auf Reisen und in Casinos nicht mehr erstrebenswert.

Das lokal unabhängige Sportwetten bieten aber noch größere Möglichkeiten, wenn man es als Geschäft oder Investment betrachtet. Dazu muss man aber diszipliniert sein und vor allem sehr genau seine Chancen kennen. Und da kommt meine Liebe zu Statistiken ins Spiel. Zusammen mit meinem Statistik-Berater entwickle ich seit 2018 Wett-Strategien basierend auf Statistiken der Vergangenheit. Was also jeder Sportwetter mit mehr oder weniger mathematischer Begabung macht, machen wir professionell. Daraus sind bisher zwei NHL-Strategien entstanden (3xbet) und die der Oberbegriff „Underpicker“ für verschiedene Strategien, die alle darauf abzielen darauf zu wetten, dass weniger als X Tore fallen.

Die mathematischen Berechnungen und Simulationen von Strategien haben den Vorteil, dass wir genau sagen können, welche Performance die jeweilige Strategie in der Vergangenheit auf eine große Anzahl an Wetten gezeigt hat. Daraus kann man zwar nicht die Zukunft vorhersagen, aber was in der Vergangenheit über einen langen Zeitraum von vielen Spielen funktioniert hat, hat gute Chancen auch in der Zukunft erfolgreich zu sein. Und man kann auch konkret sagen, welche Strategien sicher niemals funktionieren werden. Denn davon gibt es jeden Tag wieder welche, die meinen aus Scheiße Gold machen zu können.

Unser Ziel ist ein Yield von 2 – 5 % auf 100 Wetten. Nichts außergewöhnlich krasses um reich zu werden, aber genug um langfristig Geld zu verdienen.

Wichtig für Mathematische Sportwetten-Strategien

Samplesize: Es müssen mindestens 1000 Spiele (und damit 1000 potentielle Wetten) untersucht werden.

Trefferquote: Wieviele Wetten wären mit einer bestimmten Strategie gewonnen worden

Gewinn: Wieviele Einheiten Gewinn wären bei den Durchschnittsquoten der Wettanbieter möglich gewesen.

Yield: Wieviel Gewinn pro Gesamteinsatz gab es?

Durch unserer Datenbank mit tausenden Fußball- und Eishockey-Spielen der letzten Jahre können wir Strategien sehr genau überprüfen. Dabei führen nicht alle Wege zum Erfolg. Aber jedes Scheitern bringt auch neue, interessante Erkenntnisse, die uns und unserer Community helfen besser zu wetten und langfristig mehr zu gewinnen.

MYTHOS DURCHSCHNITTS-TORE

Im Zusammenhang mit der Underpicker-Strategie habe ich auch die Durchschnittstore betrachtet. In vielen Statistiken sieht man ja, wieviele Tore bei Spielen von Mannschaft A und Mannschaft B gefallen sind. Die beiden Werte geteilt durch zwei entspricht einem Durchschnittstorwert, von dem viele ableiten, dass in dem Spiel dann genau soviele Tore fallen werden. Wenn der Durchschnittstor-Wert z.B. 2 ist, gehen die Leute davon aus, dass 2 Tore fallen. Das trifft aber selten zu.

Bei der Wettart Under 1,5 Tore, für die ich gerade eine neue Strategie entwickelt habe, gibt es sogar große Verluste, wenn man sich an den Durchschnittstoren orientiert. Bestenfalls schafft man es damit auf eine Trefferquote von 38% auf 60 Spiele. So wird man aber selbst auf diesen kleinen Zeitraum schon -23 Einheiten Verlust machen. Und das ist das beste, was man erreichen kann. Mehr Wetten führen zu noch mehr Verlusten.

Also Finger weg von solchen – unüberprüften – Strategien. Die funktionieren vielleicht über einen kurzen Zeitraum (per Zufall), sind aber langfristig absolut aus der Luft gegriffen.

Dazu gehört auch der von mir immer wieder gern belächelte direkte Vergleich. Warum bieten Wettanbieter denn solche Statistiken sogar selbst an? Weil sie wissen, dass die Leute denken, es würde was aussagen! Aber in Wahrheit haben weder die Durchschnittstore noch der direkte Vergleich eine Vorhersage-Kraft für die Zukunft mit der man über einen längeren Zeitraum Geld gewinnen kann.

Aber das nur am Rande. Eigentlich geht es um Strategien, die funktionieren! Und da habe ich heute einen kleinen Fortschritt erzielt.

Warum Under-Wetten? 

Die Wettart Over / Under ist eine der beliebtesten beim Fußball. Standardmäßig kann man wetten, ob mehr oder weniger als 2,5 Tore fallen. Hier gibt es im Vergleich zu den 3-Wege-Wetten (1 = Heimieg, X = Unentschieden; 2=Auswärtssieg) nur zwei Möglichkeiten. Die Quoten sind im Bereich um die beliebte 2,5 allerding sehr schlecht, weil die Buchmacher hier ihren Hauptfokus haben. Partien, bei denen man davon asugehen kann, dass zwei Offensiv-Starke Teams mit guter Form ein Feuerwerk abbrennen bekommen eine Over2,5-Quote von 1.5 oder weniger.

Andere „Spreads“ sind da wesentlich interessanter von den Quoten.

Beispiel: Für das Bundesliga-Spiel zwischen Leipzig und Hoffenheim am Sonntag. 25. Februar ist die Top-Quote für Over 2.5 bei 1.40. Die Top-Quote für Under 2.5 hingegen bei 3.0.

Sowohl die Statistik als auch die Masse der Fußballfan, die Tore sehen wollen, drücken die Quote für OVER-Ereignisse. Egal, wie dieses Spiel ausgeht, grundsätzlich sollte es sich mehr lohnen, wenn man sich auf UNDER spezialiert.

Under 2.0

Die Underpicker-Strategie „Under 2.0 Goals“ lief seit Januar im Test auf Blogabet hervorragend mit +60 Einheiten. Allerdings wurde gestern an einem einzigen Tag der Gewinn vernichtet, weil ich die Strategie umgestellt hatte und zuviele Wetten abgeschlossen habe, von denen auch zuviele verloren wurden. Pech und Gier sind die größten Feinde einer guten Strategie. 

Deswegen habe ich erneut die Daten aus 180 Fußball-Ligen  und 5000 Spielen seit Anfang Februar ausgewertet und auf Over / Under Torwetten untersucht. Neben dem bisherigen Under 2.0 habe ich eine weitere potentiell lukrative Wett-Strategie entwickelt… Under 1,5!

Ich habe also knapp 5000 Spiele aus 180 Fußball-Ligen seit 1. Februar 2019 in eine Datenbank aufgenommen. Dabei sind auch Quoten für Over 2.5 und Over 1.5. Allerdings nicht für alle Ligen, sondern nur für die ersten Ligen. Bei den kleineren Ligen habe ich Mindestquoten von 2,5 festgelegt, was dem unteren Durchschnitt entsprechen sollte.

Ich habe eine entsprechende OVER-1.5-Rate berechnet. Dieser Wert ist keine Wahrscheinlichkeit, sondern einfach ein bestimmter Wert. 

Auf alle 4620 Spiele sagt diese Over-Rate 1392 Mal korrekt voraus, das es weniger als 1.5 Tore gibt, also das Spiel 1:0 oder 0:0 endet. Das sind nur 30,13%.

Ich habe also alle möglichen Over-Raten untersucht und bin im Bereich zwischen 44 und 49 auf eine Trefferquote von 50,54% gekommen. Bei immerhin 93 Spielen waren es 47 Mal weniger als 1,5 Tore.

Basierend auf den Durchschnittsquoten wäre das in diesem Zeitraum von 1. bis 23. Februar ein Gewinn von 25,1 Einheiten gewesen. Das entspricht einem Yield von 27,01%.

Und dabei habe ich viele Spiele aus unteren Ligen mit Mindestquoten von 2.5 beziffert, weil ich dafür keine realen Quoten hatte. Die Top-Quoten in der Praxis dürften sogar im Bereich um die 2,8 liegen.

Das alles ist bisher der beste Yield-Wert auf 100 Spiele aller meiner Strategien!

Von daher werde ich jetzt diese Wettvariante in mein „Wett-Portfolio“ aufnehmen und auf die rückwirkenden Monate testen, ob das im Februar eine Eintagsfliege war. Denn wenn etwas zu gut aussieht, dann stimmt meistens was nicht.

Für morgen, Sonntag sind folgende Spiele in der Spanischen Segunda Division interessant, dass maximal 1 Tor fällt. Wenn die Berechnungen stimmen, sollten mindestens 2 von 5 gewonnen werden. Allerdings spielen einzelne Wetten keine Rolle bei Statistischen Strategien. Hier zählen nur Blöcke von 100 oder mehr Wetten, die dann zeigen, ob der Trend nach oben oder unten geht. Dennoch einfach mal im Auge behalten

Ebro

Teruel

Las Palmas II

Levante II

Don Benito

Dem Underpicker könnt ihr auch auf Facebook folgen!

Der Beitrag Underpicker Wett-Strategie – Over-Under Wetten erschien zuerst auf XBET.TIPS.

Source: https://www.xbet.tips/underpicker-over-under/

[constructionfirm]

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[dreamsclock]

How many AUs do you have?

a horrific amount. here are the main ones unless i've forgotten some! i didn't create a lot of these but i never shut up about them (ones in bold weren't made by me ^_^)

ALL AUS

no nuke finale, protege au / double apprentice au, limbo au, guard dog au, the night men au, the uno saga, hotel guest au, "ignorance is bliss" au, nowhere bones au, deerhunted au, apple a day au, total control au, weltschmerz, fate's favorites, snowfall, hornets nest au, hold him close au, ad infinitum au, syndicate au (tag 1) (tag 2), gladiator au, the tommyinnit fix-it server au, c!madduo prison roommates au, runaway king au, daisy lore / red days / prison walls trio au, north star au, yellow kitchen au, mamma mia au, the sitcom syndicate au, nothing besides remains, fyi au, mirak au, family gamble au, ghost in the basement au, DnDanger au, swap au, vegas team (2.0) au

UHHHHH I THINK THAT'S THEM ALL ! i probs have more but these are the main ones i think!!!!!!!!!!! or the ones that occupy the most space in my brain, at least

[dreamsclock]

Do you know the headcanon of Dream with long hair in prison? Well, I was thinking, it can be considered dehumanizing to forcefully cut someone's hair. What I'm saying is, Quackity. Shears. Using them on Dream like an animal. :) -Minotaur

okay so this is an au of canon that a gc on twt i’m in came up with !!! notably, dr3, who has EXCELLENT snippets and art HERE, HERE, and HERE if you’re interested :D the general premise is the VEGAS TEAM AU (click the name to find out more!) but set post-c!quackity torturing c!dream: in other words, c!dream, c!wilbur, c!quackity and c!sam all teaming up in perhaps the most destructive toxic team of all time, called the VEGAS TEAM 2.0 AU (vt2 for short!) and the whole au is two parts angst, two parts crack, all parts “what the absolute fuck :D” and it’s great SKJDVBLSD

i wanted to try my hand writing something for it, so thought i’d write something based off this here !! >:)

warnings (oh god this is gonna be long, vegas team 2.0 is always warning-heavy): panic attacks, emotional distress, mental instability, aftermath of torture / abuse, toxic relationships, manipulation, trauma / trauma responses, dehumanisation (c!dream’s choices are taken from him), violence, threats, general dark themes (if anything else needs tagged, pls let me know!)

“Hey, Dream,” Wilbur says cheerfully one morning, bright and early, “your hair is getting long. You could use a haircut. Thoughts from the group?”

Dream is cringing back before anyone can get a word out, almost overturning the coffee pot - an unwise move, because, as Wilbur knows, Quackity is a nightmare before his coffee, and he doesn’t think anyone would be able to tear him away from Dream before he managed to take his last canon life if the coffee had been spilt. As it is, the coffee remains in the pot, and Quackity only grunts irritably, hands curled around a cup in his hands: it’s too early for him to be in his usual trigger-happy mood, which Wilbur supposes he can’t fault him for. He doesn’t think Quackity is used to waking up at seven in the morning - looks like he might bite the head off anyone who points it out.

Beside him, Sam, clearly hoping for one morning of relative peace, sinks down further in his chair. 

“I asked for thoughts,” Wilbur says, rather put out, “and I get silence instead. Use your big boy words, Dream. We’re a team here. It’s good to hear everyone’s opinions, right?”

Dream is stiff and unyielding. Behind his mask, Wilbur catches his lips press into a tight white line, watches them open and close for a second, clearly struggling.

“...I don’t want my hair cut.” It’s the first words Dream has spoken all morning, save from the hoarse good morning Wilbur makes them all say over breakfast. “It’s- It’s fine. It’s a fine length.”

Wilbur hums, clearly disagreeing, but remaining chipper. “Sam? What’re your thoughts?”

“I think that I don’t care,” Sam mutters, sounding tired, “I don’t think it’s too big a deal, Wilbur.”

“Well, if we can’t make small decisions together, how are we going to make the bigger ones?” Wilbur prods. “Think of it as a team training exercise!”

And he watches the collective reaction at the word team - watches Sam wince, Dream twitch, Quackity roll his eyes with a half-formed snarl rising on his lips - and thinks that if every morning could be this fun, maybe they’d be far more successful in their business ventures, because it’s all about the tension, isn’t it? It’s all about poking the sore spots with a sword and grinning when they fall apart, and the sooner his fellow team members can deal with that, the sooner they can move on to doing it to others, too.

“Wilbur,” Dream says, words quiet, tripping over themselves, “I don’t want to-”

“Ah, ah, Dream, don’t be rude,” Wilbur replies, making Dream flinch back, huddling deeper in his hoodie, “we haven’t even heard from Quackity yet. What do you think, Big Q? Do you think Dream’s hair would look better with a bit of a tidy-up?”

Quackity scowls around his mouthful of coffee. “I don’t give a fuck,” he says plainly, “I really couldn’t give a shit, Wilbur, it doesn’t matter.”

“But you did such a good job on it before!” Wilbur wheedles playfully, pleased at Sam’s visceral reaction to this: he realises what’s going on quicker than the others, shooting Wilbur a warning look and beginning to get to his feet. If he thinks he can avoid the drama this easily, he’s wrong - Wilbur’s eyes flicker to Dream, and quick as lightning, Dream tugs Sam back to his seat, looking nauseous as doing so. “Thank you, Dream. Sam, don’t you agree with me? I mean, I wasn’t there, but Dream’s told me all about it: you two actually got to see him after that, didn’t you? Sam, how would you rate Quackity’s hairdressing abilities? You can use a scale one to ten if you’d like: that might be quite smart, actually.”

Sam carefully doesn’t respond, staring at the floor as though he wants it to open up and swallow him. Wilbur stares, cheery, letting the silence engulf them all.

“Yeah,” Sam eventually says, clearly unhappy with the topic at hand, “No. I thought- Prime, Wilbur, what do you want me to say? It was with shears: it wasn’t a haircut, that’s not why it happened.”

You know that, his sharp gaze tells him, and Wilbur smiles. It doesn’t particularly matter what he knows in the end. Sam had spoken: that’s enough for him.

“I think you’d look good with shorter hair,” he tells Dream, and the younger goes still, fingers freezing from where they’d been anxiously drumming against the side of his leg, “Quackity, are you up to another haircutting job any time soon?”

“I don’t-” Dream begins.

“If he doesn’t shut the hell up, then yeah,” Quackity snaps, and there’s the Quackity Wilbur likes - the flash of something darker, the dark cloud in his eyes that makes Dream inch back and Sam stiffen, there you are, Q, Wilbur thinks fondly, good morning, “I’m sick of hearing his fucking voice.”

Dream’s throat bobs, and when he moves, it’s jerky, stilted. “You’re not going to touch me,” he says, glancing to Wilbur for confirmation, who only smiles, and recoiling when Quackity snarls, a cruel shadow of a sneer, leaning across the table to Dream, “Wil-”

“Wilbur isn’t here for him to be your knight in shining armour, Dream,” Quackity tells him, pseudo-sweetly, “Wilbur won’t be able to stop be in time if I wanted to take a pair of shears to your hair. Wilbur wouldn’t be able to do a single damn thing, Dream, and even if he could, I doubt he would.”

Wilbur sits back, sipping at his tea - it’s cold by now, the way he likes it - and smiles serenely at Dream’s stuttered attempt at a reply and Quackity’s growing anger. It’s too early for popcorn, which is a shame, because otherwise he’d be having a field day right now.

It ends like it usually does: anti-climactic, with Dream’s eyes glazing over sharply, Quackity storming out of the building with a muttered curse, and Sam heading to his room, presumably to bemoan their team in private so Wilbur has no ammunition to light. Annoying, but Wilbur thinks he’s satisfied with the events of today so far. 

They still have tonight, anyway. And the rest of the week, and the rest of the month, and however long it takes until this whole business endeavour goes up in flames and takes them all with it. Eyes lighting up at the thought of it all, he turns to his ally, giving him a brief considering look.

“I think your hair looks fine,” Wilbur tells an unresponsive Dream, whose breaths are ragged, pouring himself another cup, “I don’t know what they were talking about. Maybe we could get Quackity to braid it later or something instead. That might be nice. What do you think?”

Dream twitches, and Wilbur counts the morning as a success.

[dreamsclock]

How does Vegas 2.0 work with the new lore? How does this change Dream and Wilbur's dynamic?

short answer: it changes very little !!

longer answer: c!wilbur and c!dream in vt2.0au have SUCH an unhealthy relationship (they All Do but i’m focusing on these two for now bsskdbnd), and it’s not just general hatred / toxicity in terms of negativity. both of them IDOLISE each other — c!dream because c!wilbur broke him out and generally shaped a lot of his season one/two development, and c!wilbur because c!dream broke him out of The Void TM and because he has an unhealthy obsession with what he considers to be “his” (in this case HIS hero, HIS villain that HE created). they’re still going to be just as fucked up, just as codependent, just as awful, but perhaps with a layer or two more of protectiveness and idolisation for c!wil !!

long story short; they’re still as fucked up as they’ve always been but Now Even More So

[cdroloisms]

more of the vegas team 2.0 !! time for a group therapy session* :D

*includes very little therapy

tw: TORTURE (doesnt happen in the scene but is Absolutely talked about), abuse, beatings, violence, manipulation, toxic relationship, prison arc, mental instability, emotional distress, trauma, dehumanization

"So!" Wilbur claps his hands, smiling widely. "Are we ready to start?"

"This is fuckin' stupid."

Ignoring Quackity, Wilbur looks out over his handiwork; Quackity, Sam, and Dream and himself are sat down in a circle on the ground, all looking like they're at varying levels of get me the fuck out of here. Quackity glares up at him with his one good eye with a scowl on his face, while Sam looks pointedly at the opposite wall like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Across from him, from where he is sandwiched between Quackity and Sam, Dream gives him a pleading look that Wilbur deliberately ignores.

"Big Q is right," Sam sighs, anxiety making his voice slightly tinny, "We're wasting a lot of time, Wilbur. We all have a lot of stuff to get done to get ready for tomorrow-"

Wilbur's arm snaps out, pressing on Sam's shoulder as the taller moves his hands to the ground in an effort to push himself up.

"No- come on, Sam. Don't be like that, man. It'll be fun! We're a team," he stretches the word just to watch the others flinch, feeling a cold sweep of satisfaction when they do, "It'll be good for all of us- what do you think, Dream?"

Dream freezes, wide eyes turning to look into Wilbur's, lip beginning to tremble. Wilbur smiles serenely, watches as he shakes worse with every second of Quackity's angry glare and Sam's cold gaze directed at him with equal parts curiosity and excitement, smiles wider when he finally wilts under the weight of all of their eyes.

"I think- I think that it's a good idea, Wil," he mumbles, flinching back when Quackity's eyes narrow further, and Wilbur bites down his laughter.

"Wonderful!" Quackity turns the fury of his expression back over at him, all but snarling, lips curled and wings fluttering in anger on his back.

"What the fuck- no I'm not helping with this- this stupid fuckin' group therapy bullshit- what is this, a fuckin' AA meeting?" He accompanies his words with a series of jerky gestures, seemingly oblivious to the way that they make Dream curl more and more into himself, and Wilbur digs into his inventory-

"Yeah, that's exactly what this is like, Big Q!" He drops the result of his search unceremoniously into the other's lap, grinning at the look he's given when Quackity finally stops fumbling with the item.

"Is this a stick of dynamite?"

"It's your talking stick!" Quackity looks about three seconds away from cursing him out or burying a sword in his neck, while Sam and Dream look like they would rather be anywhere else at the minute, and this is the best decision that Wilbur's made in his life. "I was thinking that because there's clearly been some tension between us-"

"Quackity tried to kill Dream three times this week."

"-that it would be good for us to talk about our feelings!"

Sam looks entirely unimpressed, a flash of frustration breaking through his usual mask of cold indifference.

"Wilbur, what are you-"

"Ah ah ah!" Wilbur gestures at Quackity, smoothing down a smirk at Sam's irritation, "You can't speak."

"And why am I not allowed to speak, again?"

"Big Q has the talking stick, so he's the only one that can talk right now."

"Wilbur," Sam's hand moves to his face, palms digging into his eyes, "you don't have the talking stick, either."

"Oh, sorry," Wilbur reaches over, easily plucking the dynamite out of Quackity's hands and ignoring the younger's protests, "As I was saying, only the person with the talking stick can speak!"

"...sure."

Wilbur turns his eyes to sweep over the three again, feeling a cold thrill growing in his chest; Dream has hidden himself entirely behind the cloth of his hoodie, knees drawn to his chest and hood pulled up over his head. Quackity, to his left, mutters angry curses, directing his glare at anyone that he deems worthy of his ire - which, per usual, means just about everybody. Sam holds his gaze with a cold stare of his own, a knowing look in his eye, and Wilbur smiles wider in challenge; you going to try and stop me?

Sam doesn't speak, looking away. That's what I thought.

"Anyway!" Wilbur claps his hands together, dynamite still held in his right hand, "Anyone want to go first?"

"...this is fuckin' stupid as hell-"

"You don't have the talking stick, Big Q."

"Fuck off."

"Would you like the talking stick first, then?"

Quackity grits his teeth, opens his mouth to begin what will no doubt be another expletive-filled rant, when he catches Wilbur's line of sight and his eyebrows narrow, lips pressing back together. The electric feeling in Wilbur's ribcage grows further, amusement piquing; interesting.

"Actually," Quackity smiles tightly, forced civility entering his voice, "I would love the talking stick first, Wilbur."

"Of course!" He reaches his hand out, dynamite held loosely in his fingers, "I was thinking that we could talk about our feelings, what's making us upset, you know? So we can all work together better."

"You know- I get that, I get that," Quackity's smile gets sharper, voice growing crueler as he yanks the dynamite out of Wilbur's grip, brings it to his chest, "I see what you're saying, Wilbur. And I think that this is a great idea."

Wilbur's eyes flick to the others as he nods along; it seems like he wasn't the only one to notice the change in Quackity's tone. Sam looks noticeably more uneasy, shifting in his seat and tapping at the floor by his side. Dream looks like he's praying to the gods for the ground to swallow him whole.

Sorry, mate, but there's no one listening in hell.

"Las Nevadas, this place- I've put a lot of fuckin' time into this, ok?" Quackity drums his fingers on the side of the dynamite as he talks, and something in Wilbur shifts, settles, at the symbolism, "This isn't a country, isn't some- ideal, or egg, or some shit. It's power, plain and simple, and it's mine." His lips curl back, his golden tooth glinting in the light, "And I get the feeling that some people aren't taking this place nearly as seriously as they should be."

Dream's head snaps to the side, the pale face of his mask peeking out from where it had been pressed into his arms.

"What do you mean-"

"Dream-" Quackity reaches out, making Dream scramble backwards as Quackity's hand lands on his shoulder and grips it tightly. "I'm sorry. I don't think that you have the talking stick?"

Dream shakes, tugs unsuccessfully at the hand locked around his upper arm, breathing shuddery as he ducks away to look at the floor again.

"...sorry."

"Thank you," Quackity grins, lips curving cruelly. "As I was saying, all I want is for everyone to take a little more responsibility and shit, you know? We have to be efficient if we want this place to get off the ground, and we can't be efficient if everyone is fuckin' complaining all the time. I just think that it's about time that we let go of old grudges, move on already, you know? Focus on what really fuckin' matters-"

Dream's shoulders tense, and in the sliver of his face that isn't covered by his mask, Wilbur watches with unbridled glee as his eyes flash.

"Oh- you've got to be fucking kidding me-"

Quackity sneers. "Dream-"

Wilbur doesn't even catch the man moving, but between one blink and the next, the bright red stick in Quackity's hand has been ripped away from him, held in Dream's white-knuckled grip above his head as he scowls at Quackity.

"No- it's my time to talk now, ok? I have the talking stick- it's- it's my time to talk now. You fucking asshole- move on? You tortured me!"

"Oh- don't be so fuckin' overdramatic-"

"Overdramatic? You- you kicked my ribs in! You carved your name into my skin! You ripped out my fucking nails just to hear me scream-"

"What the fuck was I supposed to do? You weren't giving up the information!"

"You didn't have to fucking torture me-"

"Watch your fuckin' mouth or I'll do it again, dickhead," Quackity hisses, a sword suddenly in hand, the blade pressed against the underside of Dream's chin- which would usually be the end of it, but Dream, who must be running on too much adrenaline to register the familiarity of the position, narrows his eyes and bares his teeth at the winged man.

"Yeah- go on, kill me, and we'll see what happens when I respawn, Quackity. I hope you like explosions-"

"Big Q, Dream." Sam's voice, deep and heavy with exhaustion, finally seems to snap the two out of their bloodlust, because Quackity stumbles back into where he was sitting and Dream immediately curls back into himself, breathing loud and rattling in his panic. Sam directs a disapproving glare in Wilbur's direction, "Wilbur, where did you even get popcorn from?"

"Oh- sorry," Wilbur smiles, lets the red and white striped bag fall back into his inventory. "I guess that might've been a bit rude."

"You guess?" Sam mumbles, massaging his temples with a heavy sigh. Quackity glares back and forth at all of them before standing and stomping away to sulk, his footsteps loud and heavy against the marble floor. Sam ignores him, pushes at Dream's shoulder with one hand, gets no response, and Wilbur laughs.

"You know, Sam, I think that went great."

[dreamsclock]

Once again thinking about mutually assured destruction au. It's so good I literally cannot stop thinking about it. Dream being so broken from Quackity repeatedly slamming him with all of the tools he can find, then Wilbur comes luring him in with lies and false comfort. When will my man get a break 🙏

vegas team 2.0 au my beloved !! you didn’t ask specifically for this au but i thought it would be interesting to write - i can never pass up an opportunity to write from c!quackity’s perspective, and seeing him interact with c!wilbur canonly Gave Me Ideas TM bdksjfkd, so have mutually assured destruction with a(n) (un)healthy dose of vt2 au !! 

warnings: manipulation, torture/abuse, dependency, toxic relationships, dehumanisation, violence, dark thoughts, fighting, dark portrayals of c!wilbur, c!dream and c!quackity, trauma, dark themes / content

It’s weird to see Dream compliant.

Not that he hadn’t been in prison — fuck, Quackity had ensured Dream had been nothing short of obedient, able to get him to do almost anything (other than hand over the Revive Book information of course, rather frustratingly) — but Wilbur and Dream are on a different level. An inhuman level: Wilbur smiles and Dream rips apart a zombie in front of him; Wilbur takes a drag from his cigarette and Dream creates a diversion for him to get out of a situation; Wilbur fucking walks into a room, and Dream is ready to burn the world for him.

He won’t lie. It’s three parts unsettling and seven parts enviable: in his long three months of getting to know Dream (to put what he had been doing in prison lightly), Dream had never once been so attentive of his wants, had never once been on the same page as him, even in their rare moments of semi-understanding, the moments where Dream would scream and Quackity would demand an answer that both of them would willingly do anything for. To see Wilbur swan into the scene, pluck Dream out from of his grasp, and bend him into the perfect guard dog within a week is almost an insult.

“How’d you do it?” He asks one day, unable to help himself. It’s impossible to hide the thin layer of hunger in his words, hunger that Dream and Schlatt and Techno and Wilbur had lit the match on but that had always been buried deep inside him. “How’d you..”

Well. They both know what he’s talking about. Quackity makes a rough gesture to Dream, sat on the floor at Wilbur’s feet with his hands pressed against the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. He’s more animal than human; Quackity pays him almost no mind when his face snaps to him, when he stiffens, body growing tense at the sight of his torturer, because at this point, Wilbur talking for Dream is more expected. Fuck, Quackity still isn’t convinced they don’t have some sort of telekinetic bond, telekinesis, telepathic, whatever — when Wilbur smiles at Quackity, teeth gleaming, Dream’s hand twists on the floor into something white knuckled and heavy. Quackity eyes him in barely concealed contempt.

“Do what?” Wilbur has the gall to feign ignorance, tilting his head in boyish confusion. “I’ve done a lot of things, you’re going to have to be a tad more specific, Big Q.”

Quackity jerks his head to the prisoner in the room, moving from his slouched position against the doorframe further into the room, probing, restless. “You know what I’m talking about. To Dream. How the fuck did you get him like that?”

Wilbur’s eyes don’t even flicker to Dream; he doesn’t even acknowledge his presence in the room, but Dream sits up straighter anyway, that stupid mask keeping his face hidden, what wouldn’t I give, Quackity thinks, to rip that fucking thing from his face?

“I’m really not sure I understand,” Wilbur begins, and, fuse short, Quackity sneers distrustfully at him, wings bristling.

“Don’t play games with me.”

Wilbur laughs, genuinely laughs, eyes lit up behind his glasses with amusement. “Isn’t that your forte, though?” He asks, almost teasingly, if not for the fact every goddamn thing the madman says is some riddle, some stupid enigma Quackity never understands and always feels stupid hearing. “You made Las Nevadas. You’re a very talented player, too: I thought you’d quite like a good game. But I’m not playing with you,” he continues, when Quackity considers slamming his fist into Wilbur’s face, “you didn’t let me finish. I really don’t understand why you’re asking me this. I thought it was obvious.”

Wilbur isn’t calling him stupid, but Prime, Quackity hears implications of it layered cleanly into his voice, and for a second really has to fight not to pull an axe on Wilbur and take him apart right then and there. The man is viciously infuriating, but Dream is there, and Quackity doesn’t want to deal with him: he’s a lot of things, but viciously protective of Wilbur is unfortunately one of them, and Quackity doesn’t want to risk Dream actually hurting him.

Instead, he forces a razor thin smile over his face that takes the place of his curiosity, thinly veiled annoyance dripping from his expression. Stupid Quackity, the implication is, and he hears it from Wilbur’s expression and in Schlatt’s voice, always too slow to catch up with the main players, stupid Quackity, always a step behind. “If you’re not gonna give me a straight fucking answer,” he says as evenly as he can, “don’t bother giving me one at all, Jesus Christ.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean anything by it!” Wilbur chuckles, and buries his hand in Dream’s hair, almost bragging without words, almost but not quite saying look at how fucked up he is, look how fucked up we all are, we are going down in flames and I can’t wait. Dream leans into the touch, still uneasy with Quackity nearby, but more relaxed than he’s seen him in months. “Only that you and Sam helped a tremendous deal, you really did, and I thought you knew that. That’s why I’m surprised you asked.”

Quackity scowls. “What?”

Wilbur’s eyebrow raises. “Give a dog a bone...”

Your move, he says without speaking, expecting understanding, and Quackity swears internally as he tries to put the pieces together.

And then it clicks. Wilbur’s hand is still in Dream’s hair, and Quackity thinks of how Wilbur is the only one able to control Dream without leaving him an emotional unresponsive wreck; how Wilbur can blink and Dream will be carrying out his slightest command before anyone has any idea what’s going on. And he thinks of the compliments Wilbur pays Dream, the human decency he shows him — praising him after dispatching an unruly customer, talking to him cheerfully (no matter how often conversations with Wilbur lead to destruction), making sure he gets enough food and drink and oh, Quackity thinks, oh, he thinks he might understand.

“Niceties got a long way,” Wilbur muses, like he can hear Quackity’s thoughts, “I thought you’d understand that better than most, Big Q.”

Stupid Quackity, he hears laced in Wilbur’s voice, and it distorts in his mind, twists into Schlatt, but this time his words are sickeningly sweet and remind him of the election, remind him of being on top of the world afterwards and Schlatt praising him for almost the full night while they celebrated until Quackity had believed them. You’re so fucking smart, Quackity hears Schlatt say, sees in his mind’s eye his appreciative quick grin and the glint of his ring on his finger as he pours them victory drinks, I couldn’t have done this without my Vice President.

His face is hot. Wilbur is smiling benignly.

“It’s nice to feel part of a team, right?” He asks, and Quackity’s axe is in his hand and he’s lunging for Wilbur before he knows what hits him.

It’s a stupid rookie mistake, because Dream is knocking him down in a heartbeat, silent and stoic and utterly loyal to Wilbur while he defends him. Quackity scrambles back when Dream pulls out a sword, snarling curses under his breath while going wide-eyed in panic — for all Dream is fucked up right now, Quackity still doesn’t trust himself to be able to beat him in a fight.

“Dream,” Wilbur says mildly, but he’s grinning, pleased as shit, and Quackity could kill him, he really could, “down, boy.”

And just like that, Dream leashes himself: slams to a stop, sword just inches away from Quackity’s skull and returning to his inventory, before he pulls himself back to Wilbur’s side. Quackity wastes no time getting to his feet again, humiliated, angry beyond belief: he gestures with his axe at Dream, who cringes back, suddenly aware of his own actions, and Quackity feels vindictive satisfaction at the sight. Good. Fucking good. Dream should still be scared of him.

“If you ever try that again, I swear to fuck, Dream, I’ll make what happened in that prison seem like a goddamn dream, pal, do you understand me?”

Dream doesn’t speak. Quackity imagines his face, wide-eyed and terrified. Wilbur lays a hand on Dream‘s arm, and he‘s smiling, all teeth and delight at the drama.

“He understands,” he says pleasantly, and lifts Dream‘s arm to wave playfully at Quackity, “goodbye, Quackity.”

It’s a dismissal if there ever had been one. Face burning, furious and humiliated and shaking with how badly he wants to kill them both, Quackity takes it, storming from the room and slamming the door behind him loud enough that he knows Dream will flinch.

He can’t quite dismiss the image of Wilbur‘s hand ruffling Dream‘s hair, or the sound of Schlatt’s oily kindnesses greasing his brain like a wind up toy.

[cdroloisms]

idk why but i imagined vegas 2.0 as two soccer moms (the politics bois) trying to outdo each other while their sons are dragged into it (green bois) in a rlly fvcked way. e.g.

maybe big q reconsidering dream's usefulness by saying sam's enough as protection and has other things to offer to the team as well. wilbur steps in by suggesting a duel between sam and dream then, to prove it then. maybe while it happens, wilbur whispers to quackity a list of what is still physically broken abt dream post prison (so many unhealed bones, barely healed muscle, he can barely stomach food so he had like 1 steak in the past few days, etc.) and of course, he mentions dream's most powerful asset, the revive book :)

-🐇

LMAOO

this is hilarious and also accurate as hell ,, thank you anon because the image of c!wilbur and c!quackity as PTA moms is completely sending me. this prompt (as most vt2 related things are) was really fun !! it also kinda ran away from me, which is why this ended up being almost 6k words instead of my usual 1-2k for asks, but i hope you enjoy it regardless :]

tws: implied torture/abuse, death, violence, blood, injuries, conditioning, dehumanization, panic attacks, emotional distress, trauma, unhealthy relationships (so many unhealthy relationships), smoking, dark contents, dark themes, vt2 au is always really dark so definitely proceed with caution !! dark portrayals of c!quackity, c!sam, c!wilbur, and c!dream

It starts, as many things do nowadays, with a board meeting - which seems to be as much of a sign as any that everything is going to go to shit. Board meetings for Quackity, much like Wilbur’s stupid group therapy sessions, are just a thinly veiled attempt for the two to fight for control of pretty much everything - ranging from the casino schedules to the laws still being written for Las Nevadas to what food to stock in the vending machines. As Sam is still sitting on his false throne of moral superiority and therefore less inclined to indulge himself in the same blatant corruption that characterizes their discussions, and Dream - more than anything - knows his place (which hardly gives him any position to wrangle for power among the likes of Wilbur and Quackity), the fights for control more or less remain restricted between the two. More often than not, they devolve into proving their superiority over the other by using their control of Dream (which naturally never means anything remotely good for him as a consequence) so when Quackity strolls over, all tight-lipped smiles and a cigarette held between clenched fingers, Dream really doesn’t feel anything other than dread.

Still, orders by Quackity are still orders - Dream knows this fact better than he knows that he’s alive and breathing, better than the fact that he’s out of the prison, better than he knows his own goddamn name - and Dream is far too well-trained to ever consider trying to rebel. So when the time comes - 7:30 pm, sharp - Dream is in his chair, spine straight and head alert like a goddamn dog, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long for the others to arrive. Sam comes over first, leveling him with a heavy, distrustful stare as he sits down in the chair across from Dream, the expression nearly enough for Dream to roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fear that rockets through him, still, at the sight of the Warden so close to him. Sam has made it more than clear from the very beginning that he has no trust at all for Dream, that if he had his way then Dream would be locked up for the rest of eternity in a labyrinth of blackstone and obsidian, forever guarded by his ever-present supervision. Dream feels his ears burning with heat as he dips his eyes low to the surface of the table, wanting no more than to curl up and hide under the scrutiny of the Warden’s glare.

Quackity enters next, throwing open the door of the conference room loud enough to make Dream jump out of his seat, looking at him with an upturned corner of his lip when he comes back to himself enough to notice. Dream stifles a shudder at his visible good mood, all-too-aware of what that usually meant for him in the cell, stiffening further with a growing ringing to his ears as Sam and Quackity talk and Quackity sweeps past his side to get to his seat at the head of the table, carelessly brushing his fingers along the back of Dream’s neck in a way that makes him freeze, stock-still, in his chair - feeling his fingertips ease themselves over the ridge present there from a thick band of scar tissue, a deep, jagged thing that had been carved from the blunter back edge of Quackity’s axe when he had lost his temper and let the thing slam against the back of his neck, hard enough that it probably would’ve paralyzed him completely if it weren’t for Sam’s use of almost a full chest of regens. Quackity remains over him for a few more seconds, leaning over his chair to talk to Sam as he runs a light, possessive hand over the topmost bumps of Dream’s spine, before settling over into his chair, watching him with a small smirk as he keeps a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Dream hates the prickling shame and terror that keeps his muscles tense as he stares at the table’s surface, still feeling the ghost of fingers tracing over skin and bone along the back of his neck, keeps his burning eyes trained on the surface of solid wood as he tries to steady his breaths. It’s all he can do to press down his flinch when Quackity, with a frustrated yell, slams his fist against the table a few minutes later, rage simmering underneath his words as he speaks.

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” His glare slides across the room, landing on Dream, making him shrink back in his seat, heart thudding in his ears. Quackity doesn’t stop staring at him even as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket, lighting it and bringing it to his lips and letting the silver-grey threads of smoke fill the room and press against the inside of Dream’s lungs. “It’s ten minutes til 8 - I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Sam digs his fingers into his temples, already looking exhausted. “If you want, Q, we can always start without him and catch him up later. Depends on you.”

“No, then I’ll have to repeat myself and it’ll be pointless and ugh,” Quackity makes a vaguely frustrated noise as he finally turns his eyes over to Sam, making Dream’s shoulders shudder as he finally finds the air to take a breath, “We’ll just have to wait. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have worked with any of these fuckers.”

In true Wilbur fashion, it isn’t until fifteen minutes later when the taller man finally makes an appearance, the entire time tense as hell as Quackity takes slow, steady drags of his cigarette and taps his fingers impatiently against the table’s surface. He offers one to Sam, who goes on to decline, making a short quip telling Quackity to watch his health for the future that promptly falls flat. Dream thinks he’s a fucking hypocrite, considering his whole deal with weednip or whatever Ant has on him, but doesn’t voice the thoughts as he sinks down in his chair, wishing more than anything to disappear. Against the fabric of his shirt, the right side of his chest itches, and he presses his palm against the place where he knows there is a small, irregular grid of pockmarked scars from when Quackity had taken smoke breaks in the middle of sessions.

“There you all are,” Wilbur smiles as he slides into the room, a covered metal tray held in his hands as he kicks the door closed and slides the tray onto the table with an awful screech. “I’m sorry for being late,” he continues, sounding not very sorry at all, “but I made some food to make up for it!”

He takes off the cover with a flourish; underneath, sunny yellow squares, nearly blindly bright, look up blankly under the conference room’s overly harsh lighting. They smell sugary and vaguely sour, stinging his nose slightly, and seem to be coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

“Lemon bars!” Wilbur grins, just left of sincere, “they’re gluten-free!”

“God,” Quackity laughs, sounding slightly incredulous, shaking his head. Dream’s gut rolls at the sound, Wilbur’s smile growing wider, even more dangerous, at the tone. It’s familiar, the way the two of them challenge each other, and in a rare moment of solidarity Dream watches from the corner of his eyes as Sam’s shoulders hunch as well. The two of them always bring trouble, even normally, but when they’re in this mood? Actively challenging each other, toeing the line, trying to find the limits and push them just because they can? Dream shivers in his seat, grip tightening on his own arms; this, he knows, is when they are at their most dangerous - and he has the scars to prove it.

“Gluten-free, huh? Really leaning into the whole ‘PTA mom’ schtick today, aren’t you?” Quackity smirks. “Should I call you Linda from now on?”

“I don’t know, Quackity, I was just thinking that I would make a little healthier treat for all of us, you know?” Wilbur brushes off the remark easily, taking a seat and immediately kicking his feet up onto the table. “If you want it, of course. I would hardly want to get in the way of your professionalism, Mr. President- do you have one of those? Or are you going for a more authoritarian approach”

“Fighting words from someone who rigged an election as President,” Quackity drawls, “and couldn’t even win it, might I add. “

“Oh, Big Q! You fail to understand, I wasn’t criticizing you at all,” Wilbur smiles, jagged, “we agree, I believe, on the failures of democracy. Unless you’ve forgotten our conversation, already?”

“Of course not,” Quackity snorts, and Dream doesn’t miss how his gaze shifts towards the side of the room, landing on Dream and making him curl further in his seat. “I’ll save you from me trying to pick your brain, this time, but don’t worry. You make yourself…rather hard to forget.”

Wilbur claps, seeming satisfied with this round of verbal sparring, and the sharp sound of his hands meeting together nearly has Dream jumping in his seat. “So! Lemon bars- does anyone want any?”

Dream is keenly aware of two pairs of eyes landing on him, Wilbur and Quackity watching for his reaction with bated breath and narrowed eyes. Panic crawls up his throat; he knows the purpose behind their stares, knows that he’s once again become the object of one of their power struggles. Quackity’s orders rattle in his brain, his thoughts a messy jumble of pins all knocked loose from his time in the prison, hopelessly unorganized and running on little more than instinct. Wilbur is expecting him to eat, to give into his sweet pastries and sweeter words; the lesson not to eat, move, think without permission, hammered into him between chunks of potato and battered ribs and blood gathered in the crevices of his skin, keeps his hands at his sides instead of reaching towards the pastries still set in the middle of the table. Even with Quackity at the opposite side of the room, Dream swears that he can still feel the pressure of a hand against the back of his neck, pressing just hard enough to make itself known from the feeling of fingers pressing into either side of his spine - he doesn’t even quite feel himself shaking his head, only really realizes what he’s done when he hears Wilbur sigh in frustration and meets Quackity’s satisfied gaze.

“I’ll take one,” Sam says, sounding exhausted, eyes flitting from Wilbur to Quackity to Dream with an increasingly long-suffering expression. His face twists around the first bite of the bright yellow pastry, nose scrunching as he puts it down, missing a half-moon bite along one corner, and drags his fingers over the table to ease off the remnants of powdered sugar. Wilbur watches him, seeming amused, and Quackity rolls his eyes as he pulls a binder out of his inventory.

“Now that everyone is finally here,” he starts, directing a particularly dead-eyed stare at Wilbur, “we can finally get on with the meeting. I was thinking we could go over the budget, today, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

It sounds innocent enough - which is the first sign of many that this meeting, whatever it is, is going to be anything but pleasant. The grin that steadily grows on Quackity’s face does nothing to assuage Dream’s anxieties, only pushing them higher as the man flips open the binder and messes with it for a few seconds longer before seemingly finding what he’s looking for.

“I think we all know that until Sam finishes with the bank, funds around here are going to be a little bit tight,” Quackity begins, waiting for all of them to nod before continuing, “And we really need to save wherever we can. I recounted the budget yesterday, just to make sure that we’re all on track, and- well,”

Quackity points to a circled series of red numbers that Dream doesn’t understand but can assume mean little good for them. Sam makes a low, considering noise, sounding strangely concerned, and Wilbur actually seems to close his mouth and lean forward in curiosity.

“We have a deficit,” Quackity continues when they’ve all settled back into their seats, “and we’ll get it all back once Sam gets the bank up and running, but for now our funds are...limited. I don’t want to stop progress on Las Nevadas, of course, we really don’t have time to waste. So I thought we’d have a meeting today to discuss the budget and eliminate any expenses that we might find-” Quackity gestures with a smooth twirl of his wrist, “expendable.”

Sam hums. “Do you have anything in mind, Quackity?”

“A few,” Quackity flips to the next page, where he’s seemingly jotted a few notes - different things that they can put off for the moment, it seems, and the money that would be saved for forgoing them temporarily. Dream reads down the list quickly, stilling at the last item.

“Quackity,” Sam sounds twenty times more tired already when he speaks, tone flat and a little irritated. “Why is Dream on the list?”

Quackity shrugs. “Hear me out, now- most of our money right now is going into living expenses for the four of us. Having more people here, until everything becomes more sustainable, is a huge drain on our resources. I’m just listing all our options.”

“So what do you want to do?” Sam huffs. “Throw him back in Pandora?”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Wilbur does have the revive book knowledge, you know,” he says, and Dream’s blood runs cold. He can’t run, can’t move; he’s stuck in his seat, heart hammering faster in his chest as the other three hardly spare him a second glance. Sam purses his lips, a considering expression flashing over his face, as Quackity presses on. “Seriously- listen, Sam. There’s nothing that Dream is really offering, at the moment, that the rest of us can’t handle. Wilbur has the revive book, you can act as security to take out any threats - really, we shouldn’t be pissing anyone off until everything officially opens, and we can always retrieve him then when we need him. He’ll be out of the way, which means he won’t be able to start any fucking trouble,” Quackity laughs, short. “It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know, Quackity,” Sam says, the words slow, but the tone is familiar enough for Dream to know that he’s already mostly given in. “It’s a risk, isn’t it? None of us but Dream have really used the revive book, before.”

Wilbur doesn’t even look at him when he chirps a reply. “That won’t be a problem, Sam. I’d be very happy to test it out, if you want.”

Quackity leans forward, and Dream nearly gags; he’s preening in his spot, eyes dancing as he smiles up at Sam. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I don’t know,” Sam trails off, and Dream looks down, only barely staving off the panic squeezing around his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. It’s nothing he hasn’t envisioned before, nothing he hasn’t expected, but this- he feels like such a fool, for hoping- “If we get ambushed, Q, I really don’t know if gear is going to be enough. You remember what Technoblade did last time.”

Quackity huffs, sounding annoyed, but nods to concede the point. “That is...fair. But then again, we don’t exactly know how good Dream is either, do we?” Quackity finally leans over to look at him, and Dream feels himself choke on his own breath at the dangerous gleam in Quackity’s eyes, all-too-familiar in their scrutiny, looking at him the same way they had pinned him to the floor of his obsidian-walled hell. “Anything to say, Dream?”

“I-” The words shake on Dream’s tongue, and he only barely manages a dry swallow as he struggles through the rest of his sentence, shrinking back from the heavy weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on his own, “I can be useful, s-” he only barely manages to bite down the word, a new wave of shame making him shrink back further past the fear. Quackity’s lip twitches upward.

Wilbur twirls a pencil in one hand, looking spectacularly bored; Dream’s chest shrieks with a harsh spike of envy at his composure. “How about you prove it?” His eyes are laughing when Dream gets a good look at them, amusement clear at the idea. “Put on a show?”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You want to know if Sam can serve as an adequate replacement for Dream’s combat prowess, no?” Wilbur leans back in his chair as he talks, still focused on spinning his pencil over and between his fingers, “Why doesn’t he prove it? Let them duel, one on one. If Sam kills Dream, then you’re right, we’re done, and we can all move on with our days. If Dream wins, then he’s proved his worth, and we can figure out the rest of the budget after. What do you think?”

Quackity’s lips press together, seeming displeased, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Sam, ever practical, drums his fingers against the table.

“That sounds...fair,” Sam purses his lips. “How would we judge this? Equal gear?”

Wilbur only smiles wider as he shakes his head. “I was thinking we would make it a little more accurate to reality, if Dream’s services were truly to be needed. Sam, you can keep your own gear, and Dream should use his own. I guess on your end we can fight until you yield, but for him…”

The words are left unsaid, but Dream flexes his hands underneath the table as he catches onto the implications. For him, it’s a fight to the death.

Sam shrugs. “That works for me. Dream?”

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Wilbur claps, bringing his hands to his chest and looking thoroughly thrilled at the prospects of the potential duel. Quackity glares at Dream but doesn’t say a word, and Dream hunches into himself, nearly folding himself in half as he ducks as far as he can down his seat. Sam pulls out his sword, flipping it around and testing its weight, and Dream doesn’t quite manage to suppress his full-body shudder at the sight. “Let’s get started, then.”

They move out in a roughly single-file line out of the conference room, Wilbur making idle chatter as Sam continues to examine his armor and weapons as they walk. They settle into an open space in the still-unfinished casino that Wilbur looks around for a second and then deems appropriate for the duel. Sam sets down an enderchest to gather his necessary materials, and Dream settles in front of it himself afterwards, shifting the lid open with shaking hands as he tries to work through his inventory.

He’s started the process of building up his gear again in his spare time, but he’s not had the time to finish gathering netherite for both himself and Wilbur - Wilbur meets his eyes with a sly wink before equipping the set of netherite armor that Dream had crafted for him, and Dream stifles a desperate snarl. He doesn’t even have the other set (still a gleaming blue from unplated diamond) enchanted, outside of a Sharpness book that he had slapped onto a diamond axe. He gathers the rest of his supplies with careful hands, trying to press down the increasing trembling of his limbs from his growing panic, flexing his arm around the weight of a shield once again and pocketing steaks and golden apples from his hoard.

He has no potions, no good weapons, not even a properly enchanted crossbow to offer the slightest bit of an advantage. Dream lets his eyes flick up to where Sam is waiting at the opposite side of the room, standing up straight with enchanted netherite covering him head to toe and a familiar axe slung over his shoulder, and tries not to break down right then and there. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of obsidian walls and netherite pressed against his ribs and demands that he behave, and despite the glittering white walls and high ceiling and cold night air he swears he could fall just from the memories alone. Drowning within them, he distantly remembers a duel long-past under a bright blue sky, Sam laughing under a swirl of potion particles on the grass surrounding the Community House lake, and wonders which of the memories hurt more.

“Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream stills in his place, slamming the lid of the enderchest shut as his heart hammers in his ears. Quackity watches him intently, expression twisted in disappointment, and some beaten, instinctual part of him whines uncomfortably at the sight. “Hurry up.”

Dream nods, because of course he does, and stands with the results of his mad scramble to gather anything that could be useful in the duel to come - a few gapples, steaks, a sword, a bow lacking any enchantments at all, and an axe and shield. It’s a rather pathetic ensemble, but it’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

“Ready?” Wilbur takes place as referee, standing off to the side with a smile on his face as Dream stands across from Sam, holding his axe with a white-knuckled grip as the Warden - expression unreadable through the shadow of his helmet and the mask fixed over his face - squares his own stance in preparation for the fight. “Good luck.”

Wilbur’s arm cuts a line in the air as it drops, and the Warden explodes into action, lumbering forward as he raises his axe over his head to bring it down. Dream tumbles in the opposite direction, letting a long held back, battle-trained part of himself take over as he rights himself back on his feet, swinging up his shield to catch on the downward arc of Warden’s Hammer, frantically pressing back the dregs of fear and panic staining the corners of his vision black as he moves.

The Warden hits slow but hits hard, too big and bulky to really avoid any quick attacks but too well-armored to be easily defeated despite that. He’s a classic tank - Dream skitters out of the way of another hit as he reaches for memories of him that won’t leave him gasping, information on his opponent that didn’t come from within the prison and all its horrors.

He’d dueled Sam before, he knows; it wasn’t the same, as Sam was trying out a Turtle Master potion and intent on proving the superiority of Resistance IV against Dream’s own combat prowess. He’d failed, then; Dream forcefully steadies another breath as the sound of the Warden’s armor clanking against the ground almost sends him into another panic. He’ll have to fail now, too.

Fortunately, he’s been allowed food to heal - without it, this fight would probably be near impossible. As it is, even without the potion, the principles of this duel are the same. Dream swings up his axe, catching the blade hurling towards him in the crook where the head meets the handle just long enough to pull himself out of the way and let the Warden’s weapon fall uselessly to the ground. Dream raises his head in the second he has, tracing his gaze over the Warden’s armor in search for places to exploit. Even the best defenses aren’t perfect. All he needs to do is survive for long enough to chip through it.

A fumbled dodge leads to the Warden’s blade skimming past his skin, carving a thin red line in the skin of his upper arm. He hisses as he dives out of the way of the next blow, the twinges of pain from the area almost enough to make his vision unfocused, almost enough to send him tumbling head-first into the part of him screaming submit submit submit if you don’t fight back they won’t hurt you more. He grits his teeth as he swings forward, knocking away the axe coming towards him with his axe long enough to push forward with his shield and knock the Warden further away from him. He can’t afford to flinch, can’t afford to let fear take control of his movements as it has so many times before. The keening desperation running through his veins is familiar, but desperation can fall both ways, can make him fight or flee - and there’s only one real option that will end with him getting out of this alive.

Dream stands and forces himself to meet the next swing hurling towards him dead on, raising his shield to catch the blade and pushing forward past the shuddering shock in his left arm from the force of the blow. His own blade arcs downward in the next second, scraping against the Warden’s netherite armor with a metallic screech. He manages to get in two more blows before the Warden’s next attack has him backing away to dodge, shaking off his arm to get his shield ready for the next attack.

He has to stay on the offensive, keep pressing the Warden back and forcing the other to play defense. He’s still weak from the prison; in terms of brute strength, he’s no match from the Warden, not after months of starvation and torture stuck in a box with hardly enough room to stretch his legs. All he really has going for him is his speed and his experience, neither of which will do him any good if he teeters over the edge into the panic attack he’s been trying to hold off the entire time. Dream runs forward, not giving himself more than a second to breathe as he rushes the Warden once again, switching weapons mid-leap to a sword that will allow for quicker blows in the time that he has the Warden off-balance enough to attack freely. He scores a series of glancing hits on the Warden, none doing any major damage but altogether enough to make the Warden back off, wary, with a gasping note of pain, and Dream shakes his head to force himself to focus before running forward once more.

The Warden pulls out a shield of his own, and Dream switches back to the axe and swings it squarely into the shield, then twists himself around to the Warden’s unprotected back to catch him with another heavy blow that leaves him reeling in the second he takes to recover. He’s clearly untrained with a shield, his left arm clumsy as he tries to block Dream’s blows, and Dream uses the opportunity to score another few solid hits to the Warden’s sides and legs, getting a good blow with the blunt side of his axe into the back of one of his knees, leaving the warden limping when he pulls away.

Dream has hardly come off unscathed in the fight - he wheezes out a heavy breath through his teeth, chest aching from a hit that had broken one of his ribs. The exertion and anxiety still pressing at the back of his throat has left him light-headed, and he bites through a crisp, almost sickeningly-sweet bite of golden apple to close a wound bleeding sluggishly on his side. Neither of them can go on for much longer; the Warden’s grip tightens on his axe, and Dream swallows past the shudder that arises from the sight.

Once again, he raises his axe and runs into the fight, parrying the coming strike and twisting out of the way to strike at a joint of the Warden’s armor with the flat of his blade. The Warden’s arm raises, and Dream bites off a yelp of alarm as the handle of his axe is levied against his unarmored side, knocking him off-balance and falling back onto the ground, too disoriented to catch himself. He lands on his left arm, and his vision goes white as it gives out with a sharp crack.

Through half-lidded eyes, he can make out the Warden stalking closer, axe raised and ready to end the fight - end him. His chest shakes in a pathetic wheeze for breath, arm completely useless from where it’s screaming in pain underneath him. He needs to move, now, if he wants to survive this - fear swells forward, unhindered as his focus is broken by the vice grip the pain has on his skull - he’s shaking, now, the terror so familiar he can taste it - salt and iron and sticky-sweet health potions against the backs of his teeth-

The Warden raises his axe.

No.

Dream raises his sword just in time to catch the blade hurtling towards his neck, uses his foot to kick against the Warden’s grip on the handle. The axe clatters out of his grip, falls forward - Dream rolls away, breathing harshly around the pain threatening to make him black out. Unarmed, the Warden takes a second to grab a sword from his inventory while Dream forces himself back to his feet and kicks the axe as far away as he can.

He’s so flooded with panic he’s choking on it, broken arm hanging limply by his side as he charges forward, sword in hand. He won’t die, not after all this time, not after all this effort - he throws himself at the Warden, batters him with jabs and thrusts that force the other man to back away and parry, snarling wordlessly as he brings his sword to slash forward again and again.

His attacks are messy, uncoordinated, but the Warden is tired and disoriented from the loss of his weapon - he flinches back as Dream hits him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, only barely matching his blows as he continues to push forward. Any hits that he scores on Dream are brushed off with a growl of pain and his sword moving even faster in his fury, and it’s not very long at all before he’s knocked flat on his back with a sweep of Dream’s legs, gasping for air as Dream pins him to the ground with a blade pressed against his neck.

Dream meets his wide eyes with his own, lips curled back in the same desperate rage that had moved him forwards despite the black creeping into the corners of his eyes and the lancing pain tying its strings around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. The sword in his hand bears threads of blood along its edge, pressing deeper into the Warden’s neck and drawing crimson up to the surface - a thousand fearful, angry thoughts swell up to the front of his skull in a singular, white-hot point. It is the Warden underneath his feet, at the end of his blade, cowering beneath him as he had cowered before - the Warden, the cause of his pain, the reason behind the ache in his gut and the stinging pains in his limbs and the piercing agony from his arm and chest. It would be so easy to push just a little harder, to press the sweet blue blade down and down and down until the Warden is gone and the Warden is dead and the Warden can’t hurt him anymore-

“Down, Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream backs off immediately, losing his grip on his sword as the command has him dragged back by the neck like an invisible leash and collar pulling him away. Sam settles back in a sitting position, still wide-eyed, wincing as he moves and bringing a golden apple from his inventory to heal the worst of his injuries.

“Eat,” Quackity commands again, and Dream only barely manages a stiff nod through the nausea and dread curling around his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade away, fumbling with the golden apple he finds in his inventory and nibbling at it to tide off the worst of the pain.

“Bravo, bravo,” Wilbur grins from the side, clapping slowly as he walks back into the middle of their makeshift arena - he’s taken his armor off again, but it doesn’t make the sight of him any less intimidating. “What a show! We should do that more often, what do you think?”

No, Dream almost screams, I can’t- but Quackity beats him to it, glaring at Wilbur with an incredulous expression.

“We don’t have the time to waste on your fucking ‘shows,’” he snaps, crossing his arms as he swings his gaze over to Dream. “Fine. You’ve proved yourself. Now hurry up - we have to clean up all of this shit and then figure out the rest of this fucking budget.”

Dream pulls himself to his feet, watching from the side as the Warden does the same.

“Make yourself useful and clean off all your fucking blood from the floor,” Quackity meets his eyes with a vicious glare, waiting until he stammers his way through an agreement before turning to the other two in the room. “Sam, Wilbur - with me. I want to get this money issue figured out tonight.”

Dream watches them go as he shuffles to the cleaning closet, feeling a shudder crawl up his spine once they’re out of sight. Make yourself useful, Quackity’s voice rings in his head, and Dream bites his lip, only stopping when he accidentally breaks through skin and the taste of blood floods his tongue.

He has a feeling that those words are going to haunt him for a long, long time.

[cdroloisms]

as of yet unnamed ghost!dream au

here’s some of a ghost!dream au that i’ve been working on for the last few days!! it’s been Fun - definitely one of my favorite current aus, along w/ vegas team 2.0 and others. it’s a really ,, bittersweet c!sam + c!dream centric au that’s equal parts fluffy and messed up, and my goal is to (somehow) wrangle this mess into some sort of happy ending 

anyway, i hope you all enjoy!! definitely look out for more of this in the future, and a future name change when i get around to thinking of one that Fits lmao 

tw: blood, violence, implied torture, abuse, description of dead bodies, unhealthy relationships, emotional distress, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief, death, dehumanization

Sam woke up to fifty pounds of fur smacking him in the face.

He startled, stumbled to awareness as he struggled to breathe from the newfound weight on his chest. It took a few moments for his vision to clear up enough to see what was right in front of him, but his lips quirked up in a small smile as Fran sat, self-satisfied, with her paws pressed against his collarbones, looking for all the world like she was priding herself in her win.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." He ran a hand through the fur on her head, got a bark in return. The smile dropped, however, when his brain - still foggy with sleep - began to drag itself into awareness, bringing with it a whole slew of unpleasant memories that largely made him want to crawl back under the covers for another week, please.

Fran barked again, headbutted him insistently, and he pushed away the thoughts with a bleary shake of his head. As much as he wanted to avoid his responsibilities, experience had taught him otherwise, and what was he without his duty, now?

He was halfway through the process of putting on his armor when he realized, hands falling from the straps they had been readjusting, lips pulled into a thin line.

Oh.

Right.

Fran barked again, probably noticing his hesitance, making a point of ramming her head into the backs of his legs again when he stood still for a little too long. Sam stared at his hands for a moment, then another, before going to undo the fastenings of his netherite chestplate and hang it back up on the stand.

He wouldn’t be needing those for a while, would he?

“Hey girl.” He kneeled down to scratch Fran by the ears, smiling softly when she closed her eyes in satisfaction. He usually didn’t have any time to spend with her, not with him needing to check on the prisoner in the morning to make sure he would be ready for Quackity’s visits at noon and his afternoons usually filled with his work at Las Nevadas and on his own bank and keeping the prisoner alive-

Sam breathed out a little too harshly, reaching for the Warden’s communicator he kept tucked in his chest pocket. The same words stared at him in the morning light, clear and damning.

Dream was slain by Quackity using [Warden’s Will].

It had been an accident, in the end. He hadn’t been listening well enough, Quackity’s shouts blending with Dream’s ragged screams making up the same painful two-note song that filled most of his days, when the cell - steadily growing in sound for the past hour, as Quackity (inevitably) became more desperate and the prisoner (inevitably) forwent any attempts at holding back his pain - suddenly went silent.

The quiet itself was enough to raise his hackles, have him reaching for a pearl as he clicked open his communicator; the quiet “Sam?” from Quackity only made them rise more.

By the time he reached the other side, his communicator was already buzzing with the notification he’d known would appear, in the end, and Dream was lying still with a sword shoved through his chest.

---

Sam hadn’t really reacted, when he first realized. He set upon the task of cleaning up the aftermath much the same way as he approached everything nowadays, quick, efficient, and methodical. He sent Quackity away to wash off the worst of the blood, not bothering to follow him across the lava; it’s not like there was any prisoner that could take advantage of the loosened security, anymore. With the winged man gone, he resigned himself to the job of dealing with the remains of the prisoner.

In the heat of the lava, the body hadn’t even cooled yet, the blood flowing from it- him- whatever, still warm to the touch. Sam eased off the cracked remains of the mask, heart momentarily seizing at the sight of the face underneath it; gaunt, pale, and stretched in memories of pain that it could no longer feel, it- he looked anything but peaceful. His eyes were still blown open in fright, bright green eyes long-dulled, a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones thrown in sharp relief from the paleness of his skin. Even with the scars on every visible inch of skin, he looked- young, like a scared kid, expression tortured even in death, and Sam could feel echoes of horror beating against his skull like a heartbeat. With a slightly shaking hand, he closed Dream’s eyes - the man was dead. It was the least he could do.

He must’ve spent a solid few minutes carefully bandaging each cut and gash, still sluggishly weeping blood - not that it meant anything, with him dead, but it felt - necessary, to at least give him this much dignity after death. He was covered in blood, some of it fresh, most of it not, but after wiping away the worst of it from his skin (his hair and clothes had been a lost cause for a long time), he almost looked- human. It wasn’t a perfect image; he was far, far too still to be anything like the Dream that Sam remembered, and there were more bandages than exposed skin, at this point, skin paper-white against the black of the obsidian floor and the air still thick with the smell of blood, but if he squinted a little he could almost imagine that Dream was only sleeping. That nothing had happened.

Nothing had happened.

Or at least- nobody could know what did happen. Not with Dream’s death meaning that the information of the revival book was lost forever, not when his death would open up a whole can of worms that both he and Quackity would be better off not having to deal with for the rest of time, thank you very much. Keeping it all a secret wouldn’t be that hard, all things considered; he could turn away visitors with the excuse of preventing something like Tommy’s death from happening again, and it’s not like anyone was particularly preoccupied with thinking about the conditions of the prisoner. He and Quackity would have to think of a better excuse in the future, but now wasn’t the time. All he had to do was get Dream’s body out of Pandora and away from people’s prying eyes; everything else could come after.

Picking up Dream took less effort than he expected; even though the man was a dead weight, he hardly seemed to weigh anything in Sam’s arms. Making their way out of the prison was much harder, but with a few well-placed enderpearls and the abuse of quite a few guard mechanisms, they were out under the night sky. It was a clear night: the moon nearly full, the stars bright and twinkling; it was the kind of night that Dream loved, once.

He bit back the thought as soon as it came. Dream was dead and those days were gone. There wasn’t any point of thinking about them, now.

He ended up carrying the man to a patch of forest against the beaches behind the prison, burying him without much fanfare and pulling out a piece of cobble to serve as a shoddy headstone. It was a small and lonely grave in the middle of a woods that no one ever visited, the cobblestone dull and easy to miss. Only Sam would know where it was.

He told himself that he didn’t care as he left, tridenting across the bay towards the community portal so he could finally go home and rest. It didn’t matter; hardly anyone had bothered visiting the man when he was alive. What would change with him dead?

Distantly, thunder rumbled.

---

It was strange, to have nowhere to go, reminded him of the early days when it was just him and Fran exploring and hollowing out the mountain for his base one block of stone at a time. He figured that it was about time that he and Fran went on a proper walk, anyway, and so after a light breakfast they were off - Fran running in front in leaps and bounds, tail a blur as she greeted every tree and rock by the house with the eager overfamiliarity that only a dog could have, Sam staying back and whistling whenever she came a little too close to harassing a fox or chicken or whatever mobs were out in the early morning. Every once in a while, she would run back, shoving her face into his hands as if to check in and say hello, and he would give her a couple assuring pats before she rocketed away again.

He definitely should’ve been doing this more often; a small rock of guilt settled in his gut at the sight of Fran’s clear exhilaration at being outside of the same four walls. Her room was as nice as he could make it - food and water kept in abundance, an assortment of toys scattered all over the floor, her bed covered in a collection of blankets she had claimed for her own - but with everything going on, he really hadn’t had the time to bring her on long walks and play with her as he should have. She looked happier than she’d been in months.

He looked up; Fran was in the process of running back towards him, again, and he opened his arms in anticipation of a flying ball of fur smacking him in the chest once more, when she froze. Paws digging into the grass, her head cocked to the side as her ears swiveled, pointed up and alert at some sound that Sam couldn’t hear. Her muscles tensed, and he stepped closer, hand reaching forward-

“Fran, don’t-”

Fran darted off into the forest, a white streak disappearing in the underbrush, and Sam muffled a yell as he moved to chase her. Her sprint sent fallen leaves flying up into the air, a trail of dust and destruction following her as she dashed deeper into the trees.

“Fran, get back here, what are you doing, stop running!”

Completely ignoring him, Fran continued to run ahead, turning suddenly to the right and sending Sam scrambling in an attempt to follow. Ducking out of sight past a collection of thickets into what appears to be a sunlit grove in the middle of the forest, she gave a sudden, triumphant-sounding bark.

“Fran, you really can’t be running off like this, girl, I don’t even know where we are-”

He froze.

Fran, bright white in the sunlight, was wagging her tail as she panted, tongue lolling out of her mouth, muzzle seemingly split in a wide grin. Her dark eyes looked up at Sam, bright and intelligent, and she barked again when he looked at her as if to ask him if he was proud of her discovery.

Just behind Fran, translucent in the light, stood a figure. They were short - only coming up to Sam’s waist, if that, and wore an oversized light-green hoodie that reached halfway down their hands and khaki shorts. Their hair seemed windswept, blown around by some nonexistent breeze, defying gravity as it floated in a messy halo around their head; they turned towards him, freckled cheeks immediately breaking out in a blinding smile.

“Sam!”

He watched, numbly, as the kid stumbled forward, tripping on nothing as they crashed into him, arms immediately going to wrap around his legs tightly. They looked up, shoulders shaking with small giggles, mouth open to show a gap-toothed grin - one that was far, far too familiar.

“Dream?”

“Hiya Sam! Didja miss me?” Dream giggled again, still looking up at Sam, and he felt something dark and cold, almost like guilt, rising in his throat as he met his gaze.

Dream’s eyes were pitch black.

[dreamsclock]

MASTERPOST OF MY DSMP PLAYLISTS !!!

this is mostly so i can find them easier but also if anyone is interested in listening to my playlists i associate with duos/characters/aus/arcs etc, here you go !!!!

note: i have so many slightly different playlists for c!dream because they’re the ones i listen to when writing him in a certain mood ie. “c!dream but heyy girl i’m losing my mind” is playlist when i’m writing him more villainous, “c!dream but he’s experiencing consequences” is my prison/upset playlist for him, etc !!

DREAM PLAYLISTS 

c!dream but oh lawd he’s experiencing consequences

c!dream but mooom he’s manipulating minors again

c!dream but he’s kind of got a god complex

c!dream but heyy girl i’m going insane

FIC PLAYLISTS

a place to call home

checkmate (or thereabouts)

speculum (c!quackity in season two)

espejo (c!quackity in season three so far)

weltschmerz (syndicate dream au fic!)

AU PLAYLISTS

mutually assured destruction

vegas team 2.0 (very rough, needs work + will be updated!)

daisy lore

OTHERS

quackity’s lore music

c!tubbo (needs work + will be updated!)

c!tommy (i’m so proud of this one)

c!quackity (season one)

l’manburg

[dreamsclock]

Did you see Quackity's ":)" post? do... do i smell team up?? with wilbur, dream, and quackity? dream and quackity workinng together? torturer and tortured? lets go sparrow!!

VEGAS TEAM 2.0 AU LET’S GO???? WE ARE ABSOLUTELY MAYBE POPPING OFF??? LETS GO???