DNF oneshots (prolly just smut lmao)

Sleep is for the weak | angst

In prison, Dream fights to stay awake.

Tw torture
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Dream doesn't sleep. He hasn't in so long.

In the days when he was free to roam about, he occupied himself when he wandered the woods, looked over the arising cities, and always in thought. There was no need for sleep when there was much to do.

He was always thinking, always lost in thought. It was a common thing for people to comment about him when he'd become lost into his head.

In prison, the only thing he had was his thoughts.

For a while it was fine, normal even. He'd have his clock, his potatoes, his books. It was an oasis of thoughts that he'd scrawl into his journals. It was even almost fun sometimes when he'd throw his clocks into the lava and Sam would give him a new one. He laughed and grinned in mischief sensing the frustration in Sam as he told him each time that the next time would be the last.

Each day, he'd mark it into his book. He used to start with dates when he could remember, but eventually resulted to tallys. He paced his cell, he'd kick loose pieces of obsidian, he'd hover his hands over the heat of the lava and almost burn himself, and he'd rub his dirty hands in just as dirty water as he tried to clean his face and hair.

Ash rubbed on him when he'd sit next to the entrance, flicking off the flowing lava and dirtying him. It was another thing he did, smudge things around in the soot coating the floor and walls, and eventually he had enough to make small drawings on the walls. A first instinct was a few smiley faces, which is was he'd always draw on surfaces given the chance to doodle, and eventually he was making crappy little drawings of people. His hands would get covered to his elbows eventually covering himself in it, starting to like the feeling of it coating his skin.

Sam would come in once a month to change out his water, and once remarked on how long Dream's hair was getting. It was then starting to get filthy from the soot, and while Dream didn't care then, Sam during his visits then started to cut his hair as well.

Dream didn't know how much he'd miss that until it stopped. Tommy's blood had stained into the floor by now, visitors were cut off, and Sam stopped coming in. The drawings on the wall were now trees and lakes. Memories that he was now hanging on to. A few months prior if he'd been told that he would be left all by himself for months, he'd say it would be a dream come true, but dreams were never things he liked to have.

"Who do you miss the most?" Tommy had said once. Then he really didn't know. That question would lay dormant in his head for months, sometimes not being able to think of anything else, just Tommy's voice infecting his mind, and eventually reliving the moment he sniffed the life out of him wasn't enough to stop him from asking.

It was a question he still repeated in his head as he was being tortured. Quackity would open up his back like a seam ripper to leather and try to pry out his secrets, but keeping secrets was something he'd done his whole life, an art he'd perfected with time. His head would meet the ground time and time again, he'd heave in the agony of a broken rib, and his skin would be sliced up again and again and again, and when Quackity was done, he would leave him there in his own blood.

As the world became hazy, and his head felt full of air, his eyes dropped. He fought to keep them open, refusing to go back into that world people called dreams, and that's when he'd see him.

George's face was becoming a distant memory, something he could only remember in main details. His sad brown eyes, brown and black smooth hair, neck and shoulders always slacked. In his imagination, George's cape was smudged in ash trailing around in it, and he came over to drape it over him.