Kréme / Driller Oneshots

Smile (Slave)

⛔️So I don't know if you guys recall, but in my Crossmare oneshot book I had a short series called "slave". If you don't remember or haven't read it, then I suggest you do so before reading this⛔️

A little summary though:
some of the Sanses are lords/kings ect and once a year the biggest kingdom rulers host a tournament in which their fighter slaves compete to win. The prize is more land, power, money ect. I was writing the crossmare side, and shall now enlighten you to the Kreme 😎

Enjoy

"So.. were we not invited to lunch?"

"Don't try to amuse me, Killer."

The room was silent except for the scrape of cutlery against bone china plates. Across from the King, his servant grinned back at him, fingers twisting his knife round and around in fluid movements that had seen many-a-slave left with minus HP.  "What? It's an innocent question. Have we disgraced ourselves out of an invitation? I didn't think third place was such an outrage."

"You can eat with the scullery maids, if that's what you're asking for."

"I'm kidding, forget I asked, I was just poking fun- lighten up." He rolled his eyes, stabbing a piece of broccoli and chomping down on it.

Dream watched him, eyes flicking over his sharp canines for the split moment they were visible before they sank into the stem of the vegetable. "You're on thin ice."

"I'm always on thin ice, y'know I could probably become a skater if I wanted. Leave the fighting career and dance on ice." The skeleton snickered, leaning back in his chair. It was only the two of them in the dining room, two egotistical men sat conversing like stubborn fiends - If  one sided speaking can be called a conversation, that is. But in reality they were opposites, in more ways than one. Dream was perhaps the second richest man in the world, and Killer? Well, until as of three years ago, he'd been eating his dinner from the trash bags out the back of Dunkin' Donuts, not eating quail's eggs, venison and sautéed broccoli off of a Japanese themed blue painted delicate plate.

Their life experiences had been polarised too; Dream having conquered three kingdoms by the time he was 24 and Killer having conquered the art of being kidnapped by a black market seller that offered a deal even children would know to turn down.

Being sold as a fighting slave for a sum of money that could have bought the entire Dunkin' Donuts franchise wasn't something he'd particularly expected from his life - never the number one on his bucket list. But here he was.

It wasn't all bad really; it had its ups and downs. Sure, the beatings and broken bones from the first year had been permanently engrained in his brain like a hot iron, but it had helped him evolve and grow strong. He was no longer the street kid picking fights with thugs and posh gentlemen that caught him nicking their possessions. His old life had been wiped clean by Dream's so called 'therapy'. Even his old name had been forgotten, replaced with the new: Killer. He found he quite liked it, it made people respect him more than his birth name.

Respect was something he found he rather liked. From street kid to two time tournament champion, he'd gone from sneers to regarded looks. A few of Dream's assistants would occasionally glance at him as if he were a clod of gum that had latched itself to his shoe. But the King favoured him - enough so to invite him to dine with him as of recent instead of eating in his room or with the other servants in a distant room. That was enough for him.

"You'll do more training after dinner." Dream slowly placed his cutlery down in line with each other across the centre of the table. "The tournament is only a few months away, and I won't let you embarrass me like last time."