Kréme / Driller Oneshots

Drabbles

Okay so I have a few unfinished Kreme drafts of things I've never published cuz they're not big enough/developed enough to be their own chapter

Like I did in the crossmare oneshot book, you'll get a chapter of drabbles 😍

There is:
- Stalker killer
- Angst??? Soft?
- Soft smut

🌦The man on the TV🌦

-So this idea was formed with Zye, about Killer becoming obsessed with someone on Tv
-He becomes so obsessed that he bases his every day schedule around when this person appears on the TV
-The obsession starts off innocent, but soon develops into something much more dark as he craves to hear the man speak of him.
-So he commits crimes, all with the motive to hear the man on the TV speak about them in that perfect, silky voice of his.

The room was dark. Curtains pulled shut, lampshade empty, windows closed. The only source of light came from a small, widescreen TV perched in the corner of the room atop of an old wooden stand. It played with loud volume, pixels dragging behind as the house hunting show ended.

It was 8:58 pm.

The clink of cutlery rang from a separate room, followed by the sound of running water. And then footsteps. Grey trainers shuffled across the floor, pointed fingers tapping at a plate. The figure sat down, sinking into the sofa with practiced precision. Silver eyes flickered to the clock, waiting.

8:59 pm. One more minute.

Cutlery scraping across china, the first mouthful was swallowed, jaw working slowly to chew as he watched the TV. It was nearly time..

Todays activities were still plastered across his clothes, crimson stains on his white shirt, scraping fingerprints across his shorts, matted hairs at his fingers. But he didn't clean up. No, not yet. He couldn't. Not before 9:00 pm. Maybe there would have been time - if he were fast enough, jumped in and out of the shower. But he didn't want to risk it. He could miss the show. He could miss him.

9:00 pm.

The TV screen flashed to a new colour and his posture straightened, food all but forgotten as he stared. BBC news. That was the station. The nine o'clock news happened every week, every day, every time the clock hit nine. And he was there for it. Every single time.

His focus glazed over the introductory transition, mouth twisted in a scowl as a woman appeared on screen. She wasn't who he wanted. He didn't listen to a word she said, waiting.

Then, finally. Him.

He couldn't help the way he leant forwards, tongue darting over his lips to dampen them as he watched, listened, absorbed.

The man was perfect. Skeleton, sharp features, serious expression, pretty eyes and deep voice. He sat in his suit, papers spread before him. Golden eyes flickered up to the camera, and he felt his soul freeze. He was looking at him. Him. Millions of people watching the news right then but he was watching him.

It made him giddy.

Dream Joku. That was his name. A news reporter. He wasn't sure how the attraction to him had started. He'd never often bothered with the news much, more prone to watching the sport. But then one day the news channel had popped up, and the remote was too far away for him to change it like usual. He had zoned out and looked to his phone but suddenly- he'd seen him. Him. This angel- this god-sent creation of perfection. He was so.. pretty.

The way he spoke had an air of confidence, he never stumbled, never faltered, never paused. To the public he was simply the perfect news presenter. But to him he was the perfect person.