Kréme / Driller Oneshots

T.U.G

Like with "Deceitful" I'm publishing this oneshot when squid game has died out 😍 (fun fact this is published a year and a week after deceitful was)

Right so obviously this is a squid game oneshot. I didn't do ALL of it because that's too much time and effort bUt It's 38,000+ words so that'll have to be enough

Some plot pointers were changed but it still follows the general idea and concept

As usual inspired by zyebana_yaoistka you guys know the drill, the concept originated from one of her ideas 🤨📸

Anyways

❌warning for smut x2 🥰❌

This isn't going to be the plot you guys expect 😘

Enjoy

Life was pretty shit. It seemed to throw problem after problem at you, a cold slap in the face every time a hopeful idea surfaced. A harsh punch in the gut when you made plans. A jabbing tug when you tried to step forwards. Life was complex, with all sorts of difficult levels, sections and essentials to master. The worst of those? Money.

Money ruled the world. Those who had lots assumed power and dictated how everyone's lives should progress. Those with a modest amount were made to work day after day, lived in pretty homes and grew families. There were those scraping by, scrounging up money to pay rent with their small pennies. It was a scale, a tiered graph that dictated the rolling progression of society. But the scale went lower. Beneath all those, beneath the poor, the homeless, were those in debt.

Borrowing money has forever been a common thing in the world, whether it's a cheeky £10.00 note from your friends, a payday loan to spoil yourself and others, a grant from the bank you promise you'll pay back with your fingers crossed, a sum of money taken from loan sharks that will track you down like a bloodied carcass the moment you don't pay what's due. Those who loan were at the very bottom of the scale, discredited and treated like gum smeared across the bottom of your shoe.

Dream was one of those. He was a piece of chewed up, discoloured grey, grit filled gum that had been stepped on by some large CEO where he had been crushed underfoot for the long miles of their commute to a shiny marble office where  he was found, sneered at and peeled off before being tossed into a gold plated waste bin. That's how he'd felt when he was given his letter of resignation. Himself and 200 workers were made redundant from the factory where they spent 9-12 hours a day making steaming irons to smooth creases out of rich people's clothing before a fancy dinner.

It had been an assembly line production, meaning that he'd had the same task every day, rolling out a thin film sheet, screwing in a few bolts and encasing the design before it would be passed on to the next person down the line to do an equally mundane task to be passed on afterwards again. Many times he'd considered throwing himself under one of the searing hot moulds that punched the metal sheets into those perfect, almond shapes and letting it shatter his skull. But he was still yet to do it. He'd hated working by there with a raging passion yet it had bought him money. He'd been living on the measly equivalent of £5.75 a day. He'd buy rejects from the market, getting the discounted rotten tomatoes and veg with bruises and were one day away from moulding. He'd look for the cheapest packaged foods all while watching coldly as families with wide smiling faces let their children pick out expensive hair brushes, dolls and luxury ice cream tubs that cost two days of manual labour. And now he had nothing.