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Dream, to say the least, is frustrated.
Not with anger or emotion, and certainly not towards George. He could never be, not towards his roommate of five months and boyfriend of one. Things like this, they're hard to talk about. Awkward.
This, being the shake of Dream’s thighs moments before George gets home, the tremble of his hands as he comes down from his high. This, meaning the spray of the shower that drowns out muffled whines, buried fantasies hidden in the dark.
This, being the shame that follows it all.
Dream partially feels bad for wanting to get into his boyfriend’s pants so soon, so suddenly, just a mere two months after they’d gotten together. Partially.
But he also thinks he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about it from before they had gotten together; before George had even gotten to Florida.
Dream wants him. So bad .
He wants to be pressed into the bed, wants the power stripped away from him. To be put in his place, easily able to overpower George but deciding not to, just to be good for him. He wants to writhe and squirm, thighs bracketed by thighs, unable to do anything but take .
To give, though, sounds just as incredible to him. Letting his mouth be used with his knees uncomfortably digging into the floor, George’s hands in his hair—oh, god, his hair. Having his head be pulled forward and George deeper into his throat, blond strands pulled on with a deathly grip.
Fiery kisses on his lips, burning tears down his cheeks. Dream’s a simple man through and through, a man who craves the feeling of his boyfriend’s tongue alongside his own, the outline of his cock pressing against his belly.
There’s so much he wants. He just doesn’t know if he can have it.
So it’s when George leaves the house, calling out “I’m going to the store!” does he try to relieve some of this frustration. Sapnap’s out as well, gone to Texas for the week to visit his family. Ultimately, the perfect opportunity.
The moment Dream hears the front door close, he jumps from where he leaned against the headphones and grabs his pillow, nails digging into the chilled cotton. He shivers as he peels off his shorts, fingers catching on the waistband of his boxers.
But he’s not removing them—not yet. He throws the pants somewhere near the edge of the bed, before finally, finally straddling the cushion.
A whine claws its way from his throat as he carefully moves his hips, the full pleasure muffled by his boxers separating flesh and cloth. It’s good still though, amazing, but part of him wants George to be there. He wants, needs George to look at him, whisper praise in his ear, give him the oh-so-needed permission to rip off his underwear.
Yet he’s not there. Dream has to make do.
Digging his teeth into his lower lip, he grinds down again. Pleasure coils gently in his gut, cock slowly beginning to harden in the confines of his briefs. Words spill from his mouth, an amalgamation of George, please, more. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he knows that he wants. Wants George, his lips, his praise, he wants the thrill of being good and all the rewards that follow.
“Please,” he pants, hips moving of their own volition.
Already so worked up , Dream imagines George whispering, hot air brushing the helix of his ear. So desperate, all for me .
“For you,” he gasps.
Drool pools in the corner of his mouth. He shivers again, dragging his cock particularly hard against the fabric. Dream does it again, and again, repeating the motion until he can’t hold back the endless string of whimpers pouring from his lips.
“ Mmph ,” squeezing the pillow between his thighs, he hangs his head. “Oh, god—”
Dream releases his left hand from gripping the pillow, dragging it up beneath his shirt. He skirts his fingers over his skin daintily, relishing in the sensitivity that trails behind his touches, before carefully stopping at his nipple.
Carefully pinching, a broken moan falls from his throat. Electricity zips through his body with a shudder, his eyes squeezed shut from the visceral heat. He’s so painfully turned on already, just from rubbing himself against the pillow through boxers and grabbing his own chest.
God, he really is desperate.
“Please,” Dream gasps, “let me—let me take—”
He wants to speak. Cotton fills his mouth though, rendering him nothing but a puddle on their bed. A yearning man, helplessly rutting against a pillow, all movements guided by nothing but greed and the dim gilded light of a lamp.
It’s so overwhelming, so good . Weeks have passed since the last time he was able to indulge in this feeling so deeply, his sessions reserved to quick hot showers and oddly-timed bathroom breaks. It’s so good, to where he doesn’t hear the front door open, or the sound of footsteps on creaking staircases.
A knock at the bedroom door only partially snaps him from his reverie, the glaze in his eyes fading just to where he can feel the slightest bit of panic. He doesn’t stop, though, not even as the handle twitches with a click .
“Dream? I’m home,” the door opens slowly, George peeking around the corner. “Are you—”
He stops in his tracks. His eyes widen as his hand remains on the doorknob, gripping it beneath pale knuckles and red fingertips. It’s as if he’s struggling to comprehend what’s in front of him. His gaze slowly scans over the shaking mess that is Dream.
“George,” Dream mumbles, slurred by the slowed fogginess of his thoughts. “Please, pl’se.”
He chokes out a moan when his nail accidentally catches on his nipple, sending another wave of pleasure rippling through his body. His stomach turns in the most amazing way, hand seizing on the pillow.
“Dream,” George starts, cutting himself off. “I—holy shit.”
The exasperated sound of his voice nearly snaps Dream out of it. Panic fully sets in, his eyes clearing up and widening as an apology bubbles in his throat. This was his worst fear, messing everything up, and the pillow turns into ash beneath his body.
But before he can scramble out from his position, George is power-walking across the room and pushing him onto his back.
He whines at the force, dick twitching in his boxers at the display of strength. The fact he could easily fight back but chooses not to only makes him grow harder, hips squirming against the bedsheets.
The pillow is tossed to the side somewhere as George rakes his eyes up and down Dream’s torso, drinking in the dips of his hips visible through the cloth and the tightness of his shirt. It’s here when Dream realizes that George’s voice wasn’t exasperated, but hungry .
Ravenous.
The hunger is gentle, but conveys the exact emotion Dream knows they’re both sharing: desperation. The revelation washes over him smoothly. George wants this just as bad as he does.
“Touch me, pl’se,” he begs, “please, please.”
George kisses him to shut him up. It’s soft at first, quickly deepening when he swipes his tongue over Dream’s lips and delves in without waiting for his mouth to part. Normally it’s gentle, but tonight, George isn’t waiting.
Somehow though, it remains soft. Dream thinks that that’s how they’re meant to be. Infatuated and gentle, passionate and insatiable. It’s them, he knows, as he whimpers when George’s hands grab onto his hips and squeeze .
“God,” George pants, a line of saliva following his lips. “You sound so pretty.”
“Take them off, please,” Dream’s hands settle on George’s thighs as he tries to lift his hips.
A smile pulls at the edges of George’s mouth, eyes lighting up. He briefly rests his weight on his knees, bringing a hand to Dream’s bulge and circling a finger around the tent. A dark spot resides on the tip, and the embarrassing amount of precum only makes Dream’s head spin further.
“Saying please,” George licks his lips. “So polite.”
Dream can feel himself slipping further, thoughts getting even more jumbled with one another as he tries to even his breathing. His attempts are futile, and George is able to tell.
“Baby,” the brunet murmurs, gently pulling Dream’s chin to force eye contact. “Traffic light system is okay, right?”
Dream nods, dazed, eyes bleary.
“Can you tell me what the colors mean, just so we’re on the same page?”
“Gr’n is good, yellow means—to slow down or pause, red is stop,” Dream responds after a minute, eyes slipping shut again.
He can hear George’s smile. “Good boy. Tap me once for green and three times to stop if you can’t respond, okay?”
With his cock twitching painfully at the nickname, he taps George’s thigh once, reveling in the fond giggle that follows. Moments later, there are plush lips pressed against his neck, and a quiet moan escapes him.
“Let me hear you, puppy,” George murmurs against his pulse, “don’t hide your pretty sounds.”
His hand falls down Dream’s body, stopping at his waistband. He finally tugs down the constraining fabric and tosses it onto the floor, watching as Dream’s dick springs out to hit his stomach through the thin white t-shirt.
George isn’t subtle with his ogling, making sure to trail his eyes over every inch of his length. Dream has half a mind to try and close his legs, now completely bare, but they’re pried back open in seconds by paper-based hands.
“What did I tell you, baby?” George chastises, but his tone is laced with love. “Be good for me, don’t hide yourself.”
Dream’s eyes shut completely. The words reverberate in his skull, a broken record spinning endlessly.
Be good, be good, he repeats, relaxing his thighs, spreading them as an invitation. Be good for him .
“’m good,” Dream mumbles, barely incoherent.
He can feel George’s wolfish grin against the juncture of his shoulder, hands pushing against his legs further.
“You’re so good,” George whispers.
Dream shudders.
Teeth sink into his skin. He’s forced to stay in place and gasp at the sensation, writhing beneath the touch as George’s tongue laps over the pained area. The bruise will undoubtedly be there tomorrow, as he knows it’s already present.
George pulls back from his neck, breathing heavily. Dream can feel his stare, the way he’s clearly looking at him with so much want, admiring his work on his boy.
Dream tugs at George’s shirt with a tired whine, pulling upwards enough to where he can see the paleness of his waist. His happy trail taunts him, rough chestnut peeking from just over where his sweatpants begin. Saliva pools beneath his tongue.
“Off,” Dream demands, but then pauses. “Please.”
Satisfied with his plea, George strips the shirt from his torso. His skin is unmarked, bare, faint freckles scattered along his collarbone. They dot his shoulders, falling to where his hands lay on Dream’s waist.
“Your turn,” George pulls upwards at Dream’s shirt.
He helps him remove it slowly, a flush blooming on Dream’s face at the vulnerable position. With his arms lifted above his head, the shirt slips off him with ease, leaving him completely exposed beneath George’s touch.
“Perfect,” the brunet kisses his temple. “You’re so beautiful, I’m so lucky.”
Dream feels like he’s sinking into the bed with how gentle, fragile George is treating him, even as he bites and licks along his clavicle. George’s hand brushes over the bud, pink and swollen, and undoubtedly hears the faint breath that slips from his throat at the contact.
He wants to cry.
“Please, please,” Dream trembles under George, hands running along the freckled plains of his back. “Pl’se, I need—”
George kisses the new bruise he’s left on his chest, purple staining the perfect tan of his collarbone.
“Use your words, puppy,” he looks Dream right in the eye and, oh fuck, Dream is not going to last long.
“Touch me, please,” Dream begs, “need you.”
George presses one last peck to his sternum, before moving close to his nipple. Dream feels his breath ghost over it, hot, teasing.
“You have me,” he murmurs, taking it into his mouth.
The effect is almost immediate, Dream’s whines turning into moans as George’s tongue swirls around the pink bud. He struggles for air, for coherent thought, the only word in his mind being George, George, George .
Just as Dream attempts to catch his breath, he feels George’s hand slip from his waist, brushing over his cock. He gasps, uncontrollably writhing beneath the direct contact. It twitches as George grabs it fully, squeezing gently beneath the head, and he knows he has no option but to give in.
“Color?” He faintly hears George say.
“Gr’n,” Dream swallows. “Please.”
Another squeeze. The heat in his gut feels like a flood, sending the blood rushing to his head and cock all at once. He makes a noise that he didn’t even know he was capable of producing, hips thrusting up into the touch.
George tsks him at the movement, removing his hand from his dick. Dream chases after the movement with a yelp, tears pricking at the back of his eyes.
“No! Please,” Dream shakes his head. “I’ll—I’ll be good.”
A smile plays at George’s mouth. He toys with the head, tracing his finger over Dream’s slit and breaking into a grin at the whine that follows.
“Good boy,” and Dream’s gone.
There’s a noise, something like spitting, and George’s hand wraps around him again. The tip flourishes even more pink at the stimulation, constant and merciless. Dream twists his head to the side as he tries to hold his hips still, squeezing his eyes shut in desperation.
George whispers praise in his ear. It’s incredible how quick he was to pinpoint and nail Dream’s turn-ons, but Dream was never exactly subtle with what he did and didn’t like. All the times he blushed after George complimented him, the gentle touches on his lips and arms making his face bloom scarlet, it’s no wonder. He’s like a book.
“Pretty baby,” George murmurs, kissing him sweetly. “So pliant, I didn’t realize you’d be so…”
Subby, Dream’s mind fills in for him, easy.
George’s tone isn’t annoyed or disappointed, nowhere near. It’s eager, it has that same hunger his eyes held earlier; like he discovered a hidden treasure, all for himself. Dream breathes in shakily, mewling as George gives him another calculated squeeze. He’s too far gone in the pleasure to feel embarrassed.
As he realizes he’s nearing the edge and George isn’t stopping, he groans and shakes his head.
“Wait,“ he mutters, barely audible, but George hears.
He stops immediately, resting his hand on Dream’s hip as his other hand comes up to his cheek. Caressing him gently, Dream opens his eyes to see a look of concern plaguing George’s features. His lips quirk up at the worry.
Cute.
“Is everything alright, love?” He asks, gently squeezing his hip.
Dream could cry at the affection.
“Wanna see you,” he drags his eyes down to George’s sweatpants.
It takes a moment for George to get the hint, but when he does, he lets out a small laugh. Red further tints Dream’s cheeks as George leans back, undoing the string and slipping his pants down with his boxers.
The breath is knocked from his lungs as he processes George’s cock, dangerously close to his own. He swallows the extra spit that gathered on his tongue at the sight, shifting in wait.
“I’m gonna do something, baby,” George kisses his neck chastely, smile felt against his skin. “Gonna make both of us feel good. Just sit and lay there pretty for me, alright?”
With the last of his energy, Dream nods, settling his hands on George’s hips after looking at him for permission. It feels right , having George on top of him, so small yet so in control. And from the predatory yet loving look on George’s face, he knows he feels the same.
He shuts his eyes again and lets himself fully rest into the covers, the softness of the comforter pillowing his body. Patience , he thinks. He needs to be patient, pliant, and he’ll get what he wants. Like a good puppy.
And just like that, his patience yields a reward.
Dream feels a hand wrap around him again, but also the press of something else. Warm, big, rubbing against his cock, causing George to moan almost in sync with him. He cracks an eye open to look down, and nearly cums right there.
George has his dick pressed against Dream’s, grinding against him with additional support from his hand. It looks a bit difficult with the size difference between them, sparking an unholy image of Dream inside George while he’s still beneath him, pinned down by his boy’s weight, maybe ropes.
Ropes . That’s a thought for another time.
Dream moans, turning high-pitched as George grinds down against him again. He falls into a rhythm, although rather sloppy, desperation seeping through the cracks as his head hangs low. Dream drops a hand from his hip to his thigh, gently rubbing his thumb over the soft skin as he tries to form his words.
“Can I—” He swallows, another whine punched out of him. “Can I help, please, lemme—”
Dream wraps his own hand around George’s, engulfing it and covering the both of them. They both groan, and Dream can feel himself drawing closer to his orgasm. He thrusts his hips up into their joined touch, and George doesn’t stop him this time.
“Good—good puppy,” George pants, “so good, you’re doing so well, my baby.”
“Yours,” Dream repeats, squeezing his eyes tight, “I’m gonna, fuck, George, I’m so—”
“Come on, baby, cum for me,” George’s hand grips him, rubbing his thumb against the tip because of course he’s found Dream’s sensitive spot already, “you’ve earned it, you’ve done so well, made me feel so good, cum for me puppy.”
Dream whines, breaths becoming shallow as his thighs shake, and the only thing he can process is how good he feels, how good George feels against him, and how much he’s wanted this moment. He feels a hand snake into his hair and tug, and he knows he’s done for.
White shoots across his stomach as George unravels him with just his hands, the burning in his scalp undoing every fiber of his being. An indescribable noise, somewhere between a mewl and a moan, his high washing over him and pouring through his veins. He cums with George’s name spilling from his tongue.
As he floats in his reverie, he makes sure to tighten his fist around George as he whimpers from the overstimulation. Dream relishes in the scattered moans and curses that George whines, pumping his hand up and down until white spurts out from his tip, a broken moan ripped from his chest.
He works him through his orgasm, George’s breathy “ Dream ”s and “ good boy ” like music to his ears. Even after his high, he finds himself loving the title (which would later be put to use outside the bedroom, George calling him the name after he did the dishes. Needless to say, it left him with a burning face and numb tongue).
George finally swats his hand away with tired and gentle movements, Dream’s arm flopping to the side and the other wrapping around his boy’s back.
“I need to get up, love,” George sighs, snorting softly as Dream leans up to kiss him.
“Why,” he asks, but it comes out more as a whine.
“To clean you up, idiot. C’mon, I’ll be back in a minute.”
Reluctantly, Dream lets go, watching as George bends over to get his boxers and swiftly tug them. Part of him wishes George was wearing his boxers, letting them hang loose on his hips as he went to find a wet cloth, but he’s too tired to speak up. Maybe next time, he deliriously thinks.
Next time . Somewhere in his mind, the giddy schoolboy in him squeals.
George returns a few moments later, rag in hand. He gently sits down on the bed next to Dream and wipes over his stomach, careful with his strokes. The warm water on his belly does nothing to help with Dream’s sleepiness, and he fights to keep his eyes open just to watch his boyfriend.
“Thank you,” Dream murmurs, though it’s hard to speak. “Liked it. A lot.”
George smiles, giggling softly.
“I could tell.”
Dream rolls his eyes, mumbling something about you did too , sighing at the feeling of George standing up again. He goes back to the bathroom and comes back moments later once more, making sure to turn the lamp off before he lays next to Dream.
“We can talk more tomorrow,” George whispers, pressing a small kiss to his ear. “Get some rest, baby, you did so well.”
Dream hums, pressing his face into George’s neck and breathing in.
“Forgot to leave marks,” he mutters.
George runs a hand through his hair, laughing softly at the blatant disappointment in Dream’s tone.
“Next time,” he whispers.
The blond smiles, teeth pressed innocently against his love’s neck. Next time. His blood sings, chest fluttering with smitten adoration.
“Next time,” he agrees. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
They fall asleep shortly after. In the safety of each other’s arms, hearts pressed together in their own small, beautiful world.