DreamSMP oneshots

My home becomes my grave

summary: 

"He doesn't have enough energy to move his head, so his eyes pan around the cell that was becoming his grave. This was the room he would rot it, and no one would know. Actually, no one would care. And you know what, they shouldn't."

or; Dream is imprisoned for his crimes but it's not as easy as he thought it would be.

tw // major character death, mild self injury, starvation

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This was what he wanted, right? He wanted the SMP to all be a big family, and if that meant everyone came together to throw him in prison, so be it. Dream sat on the bed in his cell, legs and arms crossed, a small smile appearing on his lips. Yeah, he did it. He would happily rot in prison for as long as it takes so that they can all get along. Plus, how hard could prison be? Free food and a cosy room to sleep in would be a breeze. 

Especially for a man without a permanent home, this was a dream. He was out of their way now, no longer a burden to those he once considered friends. With him in here, they could happy; they were free. Sure, he was a bit lonely, but it was worth it for them to be satisfied. He wouldn't be out there to see his creation, but it was okay. 

All the best creators don't get to see their designs in action, right? Dream swears that he read that somewhere, or maybe someone told him. Anyway, he was content with that. They could enjoy the world he created without the tyrant he was interrupting it. He played the role he needed to fix the world, and as Dream sits in the dark cell, he smiles. Maybe being the monster wasn't so bad.

The blonde stands with his smile still plastered on his face. He just needs to stay positive, and this will be easy. He walks over to look at his few belongings, a lectern, clock on the wall, cauldron and chest. He smiles at the clock; the soft ticking that so many find annoying brings him comfort. The quiet ticking fills the painful silence that swallowed the cell, aside from the occasional pops from the lava outside. 

He watches the hand tick evenly, smiling when it hit the perfect centre. This could be a fun game to play in the future. It could be his happy hour. Dream turns to the lectern, frowning at the lack of books upon it. He ignores the cauldron since it's literally just water and turns his full attention to the chest. It opens with a squeak, surprisingly heavy. Inside the chest are piles and piles of books. Dream's smile grows; he loves writing. 

The blonde man props his knee up to hold the lid up while keeping his hands free. He pulls out the book on the top of the pile, examining the leather cover carefully. He awkwardly bends down and places it on the cold obsidian floor with care, as though it was made of glass. The chest squeaks louder as he opens it further, shuffling the books around the reach the utensil at the bottom. His hand wraps around the cylindrical object, and he pulls the pen from the chest. He closes the lid gently and with immense care, subconsciously fearing it may break. He slides down the back wall of his cell, opening the book to the first page. Maybe he could keep a journal of his time in here?

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Tommy visited him. He was honestly shocked when the lava parted, and his first visitor was the boy he manipulated and tore apart. At first, Dream felt guilty for his actions, but all he had to do was remind himself of the end goal, the goal he had since achieved. His mind flashed with memories of exile and everything he'd ever done to Tommy as the blonde crossed the bridge towards the cell. He cringed slightly, a feeling similar to the guilt he used to feel settling in his chest. He stayed sitting, huddled in the corner with his knees to his chest. His favourite spot.