Kréme / Driller Oneshots

Intrusive Thoughts (Two nights Only)

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The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that everything ached. It wasn't an immediate register, more of a slow bleeding realisation that pooled across his bones slickly like an invisible blanket. The most prominent pain was in his pelvis. It felt as if he'd decided to slide down the stairs on it like children enjoy doing, except he'd done it with the force of a tumbling lunatic. The next prickling pain materialised in his femurs, sharp stings of a bee stabbing along them meticulously. His spine felt as if it had been bent at a 90 degree angle in the wrong direction, twisted and wrung like a wet washcloth to dry.

He was aware that his neck ached too, but that wasn't a bother - it was the nice sort of ache, the type that made his soul flutter hazily beneath his bruised ribs. Something else that caused minor discomfort.

Groaning lowly he rolled over on his side, fingertips splaying out and tracing up his neck slowly. They hovered over the sensitive bruises, a sharp hiss leaving him as they pressed down with more force than he'd meant to exert. He most likely looked like he'd been attacked by leeches considering the amount of purple and red marks littering his body.

Eyes dragging downwards he stared at the thick blanket draped over him, a slight smirk twitching at his lips. He could tell he was wearing his clothes, though had no recollection of putting them on - the last thing he could recall was crumpling to the floor when he made a rather pathetic attempt to leave Dream's bedroom.

Dream.

In one sharp moment it all cane flooding back.

He wasn't in Nightmare's Castle. He was in Dream's house. He wasn't in his bedroom. He was in Drea-

He nearly yelled as he turned, neck snapping to behind him faster than Nightmare could rip his arm off for sleeping with the enemy. He couldn't figure out if he was relieved or disappointed that the ex-guardian wasn't sleeping beside him, his soul thumping in his chest.

He wasn't in Dream's bedroom - he must be in some sort of spare room? A few sleepy glances around the room confirmed his thoughts, mostly because of the stacked up cardboard boxes and old dusty books in shelves that looked like they hadn't been touched in a long time.

Beside him a solitary beside table stood, bare of all accessories except for one grey, ancient looking clock. It wasn't even digital, a proper, normal clock with three hands - one for hours, one for minutes and one for seconds. A proper clock indeed. It took a moment for his blurry vision to figure out what he was staring at, but eventually settled on the time 6:54 AM.

7 am. Then I want you gone - you'll get no other sympathy from me.

The words cut through his mind sharp as a knife, a stabbing reminder that startled him with horror second only to his burning pelvis. Dream had said that last night - yes. Through his cobweb filled mind those words rang out absolute- out by 7 am.

Cursing sharply he rubbed at his eye sockets in the hope to wake himself up, yet he found himself pausing, face twisting in disgust as his knuckles came back black and sticky with his tears. They'd bunched up in a goopy mess around the lower rim of his socket in a sickly massacre. That's what happened after existential sessions of extreme determination; fear; adrenaline or pleasure. As per usual of the last two days, the latter pair had been the reasoning. In the moment it was all ecstasy, but the aftermath was always disgusting.

Normally he'd just wipe them away in a bathroom, but he was almost certain that his neck would be snapped within minutes if Mr Positive found black smears all over his pristine towels. So instead he simply sat there, his skull thumping with the flurry of his muddled soul. He knew he was supposed to get out and leave, but last night had left him so discombobulated that he couldn't piece together a lucid enough plan to escape.