Archive of Our Own

"I am supposed to be touched. I can't wait to find the person who will come into the kitchen just to smell my neck and get behind me and hug me and breathe me in and make me turn around and make me kiss his face and put my hands in his hair even with my soapy dishwash drips. I am a lovely woman. Who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me?"

- Jenny Slate, 'Little Weirds'

It starts in the kitchen, as all lovely things do. 

It starts with Dream, 3 pounds of roughly sliced yellow onions in a deep saucepan with three tablespoons of butter, and George. 

George is being more of a nuisance than anything else, wandering around the kitchen and occasionally peering over Dream’s shoulder to watch the onions slowly caramelize. 

“Are you gonna help me or just stand there like an idiot?” Dream asks, affection pouring into his voice. 

“What is there for me to even do? Aren’t you waiting for those to brown or something?” George asks back, moving to sit on the kitchen island behind Dream. 

“I dunno, just- go chop something, or whatever.” 

“Chop what? There’s nothing left to chop, you already did the onions.” 

“Find something, I dunno. Don’t just sit your ass on the counter.”

“What’s wrong with sitting my ass on the counter?” George teases, hopping off anyway. He grabs the baguette and begins to slice it, despite the onions being nowhere close to ready. 

“We eat on that counter. And now your butt has been on it.” 

“Like you don’t want to eat that too,” George smiles to himself when he hears Dream begin to sputter. He can practically imagine the way Dream’s cheeks flushed pink, but he doesn’t turn around to confirm it. 

“You’re such an idiot, what the hell.” Dream mumbles and George grins bigger. 

They settle into a comfortable silence as Dream stirs the onions and George slices bread, carefully lining them up on the baking tray to be toasted. 

He loves this. He hadn’t realized how bad he’d craved domesticity when he’d been trapped in England, how deep the pining for it was. 

“When will the onions be done?” George asks when he’s finished arranging the baguette slices. 

“Mm, 20 minutes maybe? They’re almost there.”

George sighs and abandons the bread, moving to peer over Dream’s shoulder again. He watches the flex of Dream’s hand as he pushes the soft onions around the pot, his grip gentle on the spoon like it’s something to do with care. 

“Why does it take so long?” George frowns. His stomach rumbles a little, and he can tell Dream hears it from the small smile that tugs at his lips. 

“You have to get all the moisture out of them or something, I think.”

“Can’t they just be done now? I’m hungry,” George pouts, letting his head drop and rest against the back of Dream’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and feels the warmth of Dream’s body below his cheek, breathing in the comforting smell of him. 

“Just a little longer. Once the onions are done, the soup doesn’t take that long.” 

George gives a disgruntled hum, focusing on the way he can feel Dream’s shoulder move against his face as he stirs. 

Dream is careful not to jostle him too much, considerate in all things he does around George. 

He’s been in Florida for a month and a half, and they're still not quite dating. They’re not exactly not dating, but they aren’t exactly are. It hurts George’s head to think about it. 

They haven't had any formal conversation about it but sometimes Dream sleeps in his bed or puts a warm hand on George’s waist when they’re out in public. They’ve held hands twice and they cook dinner side by side, but Dream won’t kiss him. 

“George,” Dream says, and George blinks his eyes open. He squints against the light of the kitchen and realizes he somehow fell asleep standing up, still pressed against Dream’s back. 

“Wha?” He grumbles.

Dream laughs a sweet sound, “You gotta move. The onions are done, I need to get the beef stock.” 

George is groggy as he steps back, letting Dream turn and maneuver around him. “I fell asleep,” He tells him. 

Dream smiles at him and turns back toward the stove, uncapping the cartons of stock. 

“I know. You were talking a little.” George can gear the grin in his voice as he pours in the liquid and adds a bay leaf. 

“No, I wasn’t. I was asleep for like, 5 minutes, I did not talk,” George rolls his eyes. 

Dream partially covers the pot and turns the heat up to let it simmer, turning around to face George again. “You did. You said something about holding hands.”

George can feel his cheeks heat up, barely remembering thinking of holding Dream’s hand when he was nodding off. 

“Whatever,” He scoffs, “We need to put the bread in the oven.”

Dream steps to the side to let George put the bread in, moving to the island to start grating the gruyere. 

He sets a timer for the over and moves to stand back by Dream. He props an elbow up on the counter and rests his head on his hand as he watches Dream grate. 

“I never used to cook this much in London,” He voices, a random thought he says as soon as he thinks it. 

“You never cooked at all in London.”

“I did sometimes, just never big meals like this. It was kind of pointless to make big meals when I was the only one there. It would all go bad before I could finish the leftovers.” 

“Mm,” Dream hums, “I think I cook more with you here,”

“Do you?” 

“Yeah. I used to cook dinner a lot for me and Sapnap, but I feel like I do it more now. Like, I’m cooking for breakfast and lunch too.”

“You’re a housewife,” George teases. Dream rolls his eyes, collecting the grated cheese in a pile to be distributed on top of the soups. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dream smiles, turns back to check the soup, and takes the lightly toasted bread out of the oven. 

“Mm, maybe. You could cook and clean for me and I’d come home with a briefcase full of money to provide for our family.”

“A briefcase full? What, are you in the mob in this scenario?”

“Yes. I’m a mob assassin and I get paid in cash. And then I come home to my darling wife cooking me dinner.” 

“And what about Sapnap?” Dream asks, rubbing cut cloves of garlic on the toasted bread. 

“He can be our son, I guess. Or our dog.” 

“Our dog? George,” Dream scoffs, still smiling to himself. 

“You have objections to Sapnap being our dog but not you being my housewife?” George cocks an eyebrow.

Dream makes a sputtering noise and George can tell he’s blushing, his cheeks turning a soft pink. He loves this as much as George does, the effortless back and forth of their flirting. 

George had been worried it would change when he moved and they were finally in person. It had, in a way. Just not how he expected. It was different now, more real and palpable. He likes being able to see the way Dream turns pink and his doe eyes go even bigger when George says something particularly raunchy. It’s better than it ever was online. 

He wonders if it’s the reason Dream won’t make an official move. 

“I wouldn’t mind being your housewife. Or house-husband. I’m not picky,” Dream says, a soft admission. It makes George’s heart thump in his chest. 

“You would look good in a frilly apron, I think.” George jokes, easing the tension from where it had begun to plummet. 

“Shut up,” Dream blushes harder, “Go get the soup bowls, help me ladle.” 

Dream never cooks breakfast with a shirt on. 

George knew this vaguely, from offhand comments Sapnap used to make and the occasional faceless selfie of a bare shoulder early in the mornings. 

It makes it extraordinarily hard for George to exist in the kitchen when Dream makes breakfast. 

“What are you making?” George asks, distracted by the way Dream’s chest looks in the soft light.

“Hashbrown casserole,” Dream tells him for the fourth time, “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, why? What the hell is hashbrown casserole?” George wrinkles his nose. Casseroles seem to be a uniquely American dish, he’s learned in his two months in the country.

“You just seem kinda spacey. And don’t worry about it, you’ll like it anyway.”

George bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of how to tell Dream he’s not spacey, he just can’t look away from the broad expanse of his chest or the soft plane of his belly, or the sparse hair dusted below his naval and across his pecs. 

“Not spacey. Tired.” He says instead.

Dream hums and begins to stir in a container of sour cream. 

“Why do Americans like casserole so much?” 

Dream laughs softly, shrugging with his smooth shoulders as he mixes in a chopped onion.

“I dunno. I think they’re just easy, you just kinda throw everything together in one bowl and cook it. There are probably casseroles in England.”

“I mean, I guess. But Americans are like, obsessed with them.”

“C’mere, come help me make it.” Dream gestures him over and George goes blindly, abandoning his comfortable stool and moving to Dream’s side. He can feel the sleepy heat still radiating off of him and George wants to plaster himself against Dream’s back and soak it in.

“What do I do?” George asks, blinking down at the bowl of soupy shredded potatoes.

“I’m gonna pour it into the dish and then you can cover the top with cheese.” Dream instructs, moving to pour the mixture into a glass dish. 

“What? That’s so lame, why can’t you do it?”

“Because if you’re in the kitchen you have to help, and you’ve just been sitting there ogling me all morning.” 

“What- I have not been doing that.” George blushes, and Dream grins. He hands George the plate of shredded cheese and steps aside to let George sprinkle it over top.

“Well, you have. But it’s ok, I like when you ogle me.” 

“You’re such an idiot. Open the oven for me.” George 

Dream grins and opens the oven, stepping back to let George slide in the heavy dish, his arms wobbling a little from the weight. It’ll be embarrassing in 55 minutes when Dream pulls it back out with ease, but George thinks of how his biceps will bulge and any anticipation of embarrassment fades into desire. 

“What do we do while we wait?” George sighs dramatically, stepping back to lean against the counter. Dream hums in fake contemplation, moving closer to George until he’s caging him in, their noses nearly pressed together. 

George sucks in a sharp breath, his cheeks flushing, and Dream smiles. 

“We could kiss,” Dream quirks an eyebrow dramatically. 

George makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a gasp, unable to form real words. Dream laughs, and George can’t stop himself from surging forward to wrap his arms around Dream’s bare back, burying his head in the dip of his collarbone. He can feel Dream’s shock, and it’s a moment before his arms wrap around George's back. 

He can feel Dream’s chest hair rubbing against his cheek, Dream’s smooth skin underneath his hands and he wants so badly it consumes him.

“George?” Dream half-laughs, startled by the sudden hug. 

“Hi,” George mumbles against his collarbone, “You’re warm,” He says dumbly. 

Dream is warm, his skin like its own furnace, soft and hot against George’s body.

Dream laughs and George can feel it rumble in his chest, and he can’t help but smile too. 

“Are you cold?” 

“A little,” He’s not, really, but Dream always runs hot while George runs cold, and he thinks he can use this to his advantage somehow. 

“Y’know, they say you get warmer faster cuddling without clothes,”

“You just want to get me naked,” George mumbles, cheeks still turning pink. He usually has more composure than this, but it's hard to keep his usual cool when he’s pressed this close to Dream’s bare torso.

“Well, I’m already halfway there, you might as well join me.” Dream’s fingers creep down from where they were rubbing George’s back to play with the hem of his t-shirt, and he suppresses a shiver. 

“Fine. Take my shirt off, then.” He tells Dream, hoping his voice is as steady as he wants it to be. 

“Ok, fine.” Dream accepts like it’s a challenge. He tugs at George’s shirt until he steps back from their hug and raises his arms, letting Dream peel off the soft fabric. 

And then they’re both shirtless in the kitchen, still nearly pressed together. 

George is breathing a little heavily, and he can see Dream’s chest heaving too. Dream’s eyes are lingering on his bare chest like he’s never seen it before. 

It’s only a moment before Dream is pulling him back into a hug, miles of bare skin pressed together and something hot stirs in George’s gut. He tucks his head into the crook of Dream’s neck this time, breathing in the scent of him. 

“Warm?” Dream murmurs against the side of George’s head. His lips brush over George’s temple as he speaks, and George can’t suppress a shudder this time, his fingers curling against Dream’s back. 

“Yeah,” George hums.

Dream sighs happily, his fingers tracing gentle shapes against George’s back before one creeps up to bury itself in his hair. Dream gently scratches at his scalp and George suddenly wants to cry a little.

He shoves his face further against Dream’s neck, nosing at the tendon. He can feel Dream say something quietly where his mouth is now pressed to the top of George’s head, his voice muffled by wavy hair. 

“What?” George asks.

Dream hums, tilting his head to rest his cheek against the top of George’s head. “Nothin’. I’ll tell you later.”

George’s heart thumps a beat too fast. “I-”

“What the fuck is happening?” Sapnap’s voice suddenly comes screeching from behind them. 

“What?” Dream asks, not letting George go. 

George burns a little, embarrassed like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

“Why are you hugging naked in the fucking kitchen?” 

George can practically hear the way his face is scrunched up, and regretfully lets go of Dream to turn around and face Sapnap. 

“We have pants on,” He tells him. 

Sapnap rolls his eyes, still making a face. “You guys are fucking weird. I thought breakfast was gonna be done.”

“It’s in the oven. 30 more minutes, I think.”

Sapnap groans and slumps into a barstool at the counter. Dream gently pulls George backward until they’re pressed back to chest, Dream’s hands coming to sit low on George’s bare stomach. His fingers brush over the dark hair below his navel, and George focuses on keeping his breathing steady. 

“Ok, we have to start making some ground rules. No fucking in the kitchen, or any communal space.” Sapnap says, sitting up and crossing his arms. 

“Wha- What is wrong with you? No one is fucking anywhere.” The tips of his ears are burning, and he’s over-aware of Dream’s hands still pressed against his stomach. 

“Oh, right, ok,” Sapnap rolls his eyes, “Well if anyone does start fucking, keep it in your rooms.” 

George glares at him, “I’m going to fuck Dream on your bed.”

“George!” Dream sucks in a breath from behind him, his fingers curling against George’s skin. 

“I’m going to cum all over your fucking room, asshole.” Sapnap challenges him back. 

“Well, I’m-”

“Ok, can somebody help me start the bacon?” Dream interrupts, his cheeks pink as he steps away from George. 

Sapnap groans, but slips out of his chair to grab a pan while Dream grabs the bacon. George pulls his shirt back on, shivering under the cold fabric and mourning Dream’s touch. 

“How are you actually sick again?” George asks from his spot on the counter. 

Dream turns to glare at him over his shoulder, his nose red and eyes droopy. 

“I’m not sick,” Dream says with a nasal tone, “I just have a cold.”

“You look like you’re dying.” 

“Shut up. Go shred the chicken.” Dream sniffles and George follows instructions as always. 

“Why are you even cooking? You could have just ordered this from somewhere.” George tells him, awkwardly prying the cooked chicken breast into thin shreds. 

“I like making it myself.” Dream tells him, straining the egg noodles and adding them to the boiling broth. 

“But you don’t feel good.” 

The chicken is as shredded as George can get it so he brings it over to Dream, letting him add it to the pot. 

“I feel fine, I’m just congested.” He stirs the soup together, bringing the spoon up to taste. 

“Dream.” George scolds him.

“Taste.” Dream ignores him, holding the spoon out for George. 

He rolls his eyes and sips gently, only barely burning his tongue. “Mm. Good.”

“Needs a little more salt.” Dream tells him, turning back. 

“You know, if you have just gotten it from the store you wouldn’t need to add more salt.” 

“If I got it from the store, it wouldn’t have so much love in it.” Dream fakes a pout. 

“You’re so dumb. You should be resting or something.” George sighs, but goes to get bowls anyway, “Is Sapnap eating?”

“No, I think he’s with Punz.” Dream shakes his head, taking the bowls and spooning in soup. He makes sure to put more noodles in George’s than his own. 

“What does Punz have that we don’t?” 

“Internet that works, for one thing.” 

They sit at the dining table, Dream at the head and George in the chair to his left. Their legs knock together under the table and Dream takes the opportunity to hook his ankle under George’s. 

“He might have internet, but we have homemade soup.” George slurps obnoxiously from his spoon, broth sputtering everywhere, and Dream laughs loudly, turning into a harsh cough. 

His face turns red and George reaches over to rub his back as he calms down, gentle wheezing noises as he sucks in air. 

“You really should rest,” George tells him.

Dream nods, limp curls falling on his face. “Come with me?” 

“To rest?”

“Yeah. Nap with me.”

“I don’t-”

“George,” Dream sighs, letting his spoon fall against the side of his bowl, “Just come nap with me.” He stops George’s insecurities in their tracks. 

“Ok,” He agrees, “Fine. But if I get sick because of you, you have to make soup again.”

Dream grins at him, smiling around his spoon as he brings it to his mouth. 

They finish eating and George lets Dream drag him to his room, their fingers loosely intertwined as they climb the stairs and stumble under the sheets. 

“C’mere.” Dream whispers in a loud hush, manhandling them until George has Dream in his arms. 

“Why are you the little spoon?” George asks, smiling against the back of Dream’s neck. 

“Because I’m sick.” Dream pouts, but George can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I thought you said you weren’t sick,” 

“Maybe I lied. Maybe it was all a trick to get you into bed with me.”

“Mm,” George hums, “Would’ve gotten into bed with you anyway. You just had to ask,” he admits. It’s easier to say when he doesn’t have to look at Dream’s face. 

“Yeah?” Dream asks, one of his hands slipping down to tangle his fingers between the ones George has resting on his belly. 

“Yeah. Your bed is nicer than mine,”

“Oh, sure. That’s the only reason, huh?” Dream’s words slur a bit, heavy and tired. 

“Yes,” George says decidedly, “You sound sleepy.”

“I am,” He hums, squeezing George’s hand. He rubs his thumb over George’s in a comforting motion, soft circles against his skin. 

“Sleep, then.”

“Gimme a goodnight kiss first.”

“Dream,” George breathes in, stomach filling with butterflies. 

“C’mon, it’ll help me sleep better,” Dream pouts. 

George hesitates for a moment before sitting up slightly and bending forward to place a kiss on the corner of Dream's mouth. He can hear Dream gasp softly, can feel days-old stubble under his lips. 

He lingers there before pulling away and tucking his face back against Dream’s neck. He can feel Dream’s chest heaving beneath his hands, the nervous breath of him. 

“Goodnight,” George whispers. 

The hardwood floors are cold under George’s bare feet, padding softly down the hall as he carries himself quietly to the kitchen. 

It’s well past midnight and the house is dark, soft moonlight filtering through the huge windows. 

“Dream?” George whispers loudly, stopping short on the edge of the kitchen. 

Dream is standing over the stove, a little hunched in on himself as he pokes a lump of scrambled eggs around in a pan. He makes a noise to acknowledge George but it sounds off, and immediately George is moving to stand by his side. Dream turns the stove off and places the skillet on the counter, avoiding George’s eyes. 

“Dream?” He asks again, his heart panging when Dream looks away instantly. 

He makes a sniffling noise, but not the kind he made when he was sick two weeks ago. It's a sad sniffle, a holding-back-tears sniffle. George’s heart breaks a little further. 

“Hey,” George says gently, a cautious hand coming to rest against Dream’s bicep. He’s wearing short sleeves for once and his skin is soft under George’s palm. When Dream doesn’t turn to look at him, George creeps his hand up until he’s touching his face, gently turning him until they’re facing each other. 

If George’s heart was breaking before, this has shattered it. 

Dream’s nose is bright pink, his eyes rimmed red and teary. He closes his eyes as George cups his cheek, taking in a shaking breath. 

“You’re scaring me,” George whispers, and a tear drips down Dream’s cheek. 

“Sorry,” Dream’s voice cracks, wet and broken. His hand comes to wrap around George’s wrist, stroking under George’s thumb with his own. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dream squeezes his eyes before cracking them open, a few stray tears escaping. “Things were just really bad before you got here, you know?” 

“Oh,” George can feel his face drop completely, “Dream-”

“No, it’s- like, it’s in the past. It’s over, I dunno why-” He takes in a shaky breath and George swipes a tear away from under his eye, “It just gets to me sometimes. Something will remind me of something else, and I just start to spiral, I guess. It’s stupid, like, I know it doesn’t matter anymore, and it’s all over, mostly, but. It just really hurts to remember sometimes.” Dream closes his eyes again, pressing his cheek further against George’s hand. 

“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through so much,” George tells him, his lip trembling. “It’s unfair. You- you don’t deserve any of it.” 

Dream lets out a sad noise, his eyes still glassy as they open again. “It’s not your fault.” 

“I know,” George furrows his brow, “I’m still sorry. You deserve so much better than anyone has ever treated you.” He moves to wrap both arms around Dream’s neck, pulling him down until he can bury his head in the crook of George’s neck, his own arms wrapping around George’s back. 

He can feel Dream shake as he starts to cry, soft sobs soaking the fabric covering George’s shoulder. All he can do is hold Dream through it, brushing gentle fingers through curly hair and whispering sweet reassurances until the shaking stops. 

“I love you,” Dream tells him after a minute when he’s no longer crying, his voice muffled where his mouth is pressed to the damp fabric of George’s hoodie. 

“I know. Me too, yeah?” George swallows around the lump in his throat. 

Dream hums something sad, and turns his face until he’s pressed against the exposed skin of George’s neck, his mouth hovering just over his jaw. George can feel each breath he lets out and it sends shivers down his spine with each puff of air. 

Dream’s lips brush over his jaw before placing a soft kiss there. George gasps, his arms tightening around Dream’s neck. 

“What are you doing?” George asks breathlessly as Dream kisses his jaw again. Dream’s hands move to rest low on George’s hips, his thumbs brushing over the waistband of the loose boxers he’s wearing. 

“You aren’t wearing pants,” Dream notes, his hands stilling. His forehead is pressed to George’s temple, his mouth against his cheekbone. Dream touches the bunched fabric at his waist, feeling over the rolled hem.

“I know,” George doesn’t move to stop Dream’s wandering hands as they move lower until his fingertips rest at the loose hem around his thighs, “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

“Why were you down here?” Dream asks, and George swallows a gasp as his hands slip under the hem, touching his bare thighs.

“I just wanted water,” George’s mouth feels dry as Dream runs calloused palms over the outside of his thighs. Arousal is starting to churn low in his belly, and he knows he won’t be able to hide a boner like this, not in loose boxers and pressed this close. 

“I ruined your water trip,” Dream says, his voice sounding a little less heavy, He squeezes the flesh just under George’s ass, and he can’t help the noise that slips past his mouth this time.

“Dream,” George says it like a warning. 

This is the closest they’ve come to crossing past what could be read as platonic, stretching an already thin line even further. They’ve slept in the same bed, held hands, and kissed cheeks, but they never touch. Not like this. Not Dream’s hands slipped under George’s boxers, kneading the soft skin of his thighs.

“George.”

“We should go to bed.” The words tumble out of George’s mouth and he holds back a pathetic whimper when Dream’s hands still.

“We?”

“Yeah,” George swallows. He mourns the loss when Dream takes his hands away, settling them back on his hips.

“What about my eggs?” Dream asks against George’s jaw.

“Your what?”

“My eggs. I was cooking when you came down.”

George pulls back and blinks at him. He had entirely forgotten about the eggs. He looks at the abandoned pan, the cold scramble still sitting on the counter. “I forgot about that if I’m honest. Why were you making eggs?” He turns back to Dream, wrinkling his nose.

“Dunno. I cook when I’m sad sometimes, it kinda distracts me.”

“I’m sorry. Are you still hungry?”

“Not really. Just tired, now.”

George hums and moves to toss the eggs out and stick the pan in the sink. 

“That was a waste one two perfectly good eggs,” Dream tells him as he follows him back down the hall. They’re quiet as they walk past Sapnap’s room, quiet as they stumble into George’s bed. He lets Dream pull off his hoodie and his own shirt before they crawl under the covers. 

He pulls Dream against his chest, messy curls tickling his chin and Dream places a soft kiss on his sternum. 

“I wish I felt more angry, sometimes.” Dream says after a minute. The room is quiet, and George can hear his heart beating in the darkness.

“I don’t think anyone would blame you if you did,” George tells him, one hand coming to twist a single curl between his fingers.

“Yes, they would,” Dream gives a sad laugh.

“Not anyone who matters, then. I wouldn’t. I’m- I’m already angry for you. You deserve to be angry too.”

“Maybe. I think I’m just sad. I think I’m sad a lot of the time.”

George feels tears prickle in his eyes. His hand tightens in Dream’s hair, holding him close to his chest. It feels impossible sometimes, to love Dream this much when the world has been so awful to him. He wants to dig his fingers into the sadness of Dream and rip it out until all he can feel is the happiness he deserves, until he can feel the love George has for him. 

“I love you,” George tells him, unsure of how to tell him everything else, “I’m sorry I don’t tell you that much.”

“George,” Dream says, and then he’s shifting, moving so they’re face to face, “You don’t have to tell me all the time. I already know.”

“Ok. I know, sorry. I don’t know why I’m being dumb. I just don’t want you to be sad.” He feels a little pathetic as he says it, like a child trying to handle mature emotions. 

“You’re not being dumb,” Dream brings a hand to George’s face, “It’s easier to not be sad with you. It was- before you were here, it was like I missed you so bad I thought it was gonna kill me sometimes. But it was easier when we’d vc or facetime, just as long as we could talk. But I still just missed you. And everything hurt all the time, and then you got your visa, and you showed up and it was like- It was like nothing else fucking mattered. And even when I’m sad, you’re here and it’s not that bad, you know?”

Emotion surges in George’s chest, a tidal wave of something unnamable, and he can’t help himself as he crashes forward until his lips connect with Dream’s. 

It’s like everything clicks into place. 

Dream’s hands are on him at once, pulling him closer and sighing gently, his mouth working against George’s like this was something they’d done a million times. It doesn’t feel rushed, or desperate like George had thought their first kiss could be. It feels like coming home, like he’d spent his whole life waiting for this. 

He licks his way into Dream’s mouth, feels his sharp canines under his tongue. They kiss until they run out of air, pulling apart nearly panting.

“George,” Dream smiles, resting his forehead against George’s. 

“Dream,” George smiles back. 

“Fuck,” George whispers to himself, cringing at the batter dusting the counter. 

His batter is too thin, too much liquid, or maybe too little flour. He had the pancake recipe memorized but their new house doesn’t have a food scale and George doesn’t know the conversions off the top of his head. 

He sighs at the soupy batter, debating whether he should try to fix it or just start over when Dream walks into the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” He smiles, a knowing look on his face. 

“I was trying to make pancakes. But we don’t have a scale and cups are fucking stupid.” George crosses his arms as Dream makes his way over, inspecting the batter. 

Dream laughs and dips down to kiss George’s cheek, “You need help saving it?”

“I think I need to just start over.”

“Mm, just try adding a little more flour.” Dream kisses his temple and moves to stand behind him, his hands resting low on George’s belly. 

George makes a noise but adds two spoonfuls of flour anyway, trying to even out the ratio. The batter thickens slightly, so he adds a third spoonful. 

“I think I deserve a kiss for saving your crepes.” Dream tells him once the batter has gotten closer to the right consistency. 

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

“I do, actually.” 

“Well, maybe you can get a kiss after you help me make the pancakes.” George grins to himself, shrugging out of Dream’s hold to grab a pan. 

“George,” Dream pouts, trailing behind him. 

“Dream,” George mocks back, clicking on the stove and heating up the pan, “Bring me a ladle for the batter.”

“Will you give me a kiss if I do?” Dream asks, getting the ladle anyway. 

George takes it with a grin, turning back to spoon some batter into the pan. Dream makes a noise of false hurt as George evenly swirls the batter around the pan.

“Get a plate to stack them on,” George instructs. 

“Kiss me first.” 

George turns to glare at him, doing his best to look annoyed. “No, get me a plate.”

“George, you haven’t kissed me all morning.” Dream pouts, sticking himself to George’s back again. 

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend and cook you breakfast, I’ll kiss you after I make you pancakes.”

“If you were a good boyfriend, wouldn’t you kiss me now?”

“No. If I were a good boyfriend, I’d make you pancakes, and then give you your dumb kiss and fuck you over the kitchen counter while Sapnap is out of town. Which is exactly what I plan on doing.”

He smiles when he hears Dream take a sharp inhale at his words.

“Ok. Yeah, ok. Ok, do you still need a plate?” Dream rushes out on an exhale.

He works dutifully for the next several minutes, helping George pile on pancakes as they cook and arranging the toppings out on the island behind them. 

They eat at the counter and George listens to Dream talk about his thoughts on the classic lemon and sugar topping through sugar-coated lips. 

Dream is washing their plates when George crowds up behind him, placing a kiss on his shoulder through his shirt. He can feel Dream shudder and he grins against his back.

“You still want that kiss?” 

Dream makes a desperate noise and is on George in a moment, crashing their mouths together. 

“Gonna be good and bend over for me?” George whispers against his mouth, hands grabbing to pull Dream out of his shirt.

“Jesus, George.” Dream breathes out, pulling back to strip and lean over the island, hissing as his chest hits the cold marble.

“So sweet, Dream. Been so sweet, helping me with breakfast.” George comes to stand behind him, pressing his already growing arousal to the swell of Dream’s ass. He ruts against him a few times, drinking in the sounds pouring from Dream’s mouth.

“Love you,” Dream pushes back against him, grinding himself against George.

“You want my fingers?” George asks, smoothing a hand down the shorts covering Dream’s ass and thighs.

“Please,” Dream whines. He makes a pathetic noise when George tugs his shorts and boxers down in one go, leaving his completely bare against the counter. He’s already leaking when George takes his cock in hand, giving him a few slow strokes until he’s whining and pushing back again. George is grateful for the lube he’d thought to put in his pocket before he came downstairs this morning as he slicks his fingers up, holding Dream open with one hand as he presses a slick finger against Dream’s hole. He loves the way Dream twitches beneath him, the desperation for more, how quickly he gets worked up. He’s beautiful and the knowledge of it swells in George’s chest, overwhelming desire.

He’s still loose from last night as George sinks his first finger in.

“Fuck,” Dream breathes out, instantly pushing back on the finger, “I can take more.”

“Eager,” George teases but slips in a second finger anyway, relishing the way Dream opens up for him. 

“Just want you,” Dream moans when George crooks his fingers up, brushing his prostate with practiced ease after weeks of learning. 

“Want another finger?” George asks, teasing and low. He can feel himself leaking into his boxers, straining against the fabric as he stretches Dream. 

“Want you,” Dream repeats, moving his arms to cushion his head against the countertop. He looks back at George with heavy lids, his cheeks dusted pink and glowing with the faintest bit of sweat. 

“You’re so beautiful,” George can’t help but tell him, easing in a third finger. He’s addicted to the way Dream’s eyes flutter, the way his shiny mouth parts, and his brows furrow. 

“George,” He moans, always at a loss for words when he gets like this.

George groans, flexing his fingers once before removing them to shove down his shorts. He sighs when he gets his cock in hand, slicking himself with the remaining lube on his fingers and pressing himself against Dream’s stretched hole. He rubs the head of his cock over the loosened muscle just to watch the way his precum streaks over it, some primal sense of claiming stirring in his gut when Dream moans at the action.

He grips Dream’s soft hip as he pushes in, digging his fingers into the warm flesh and moaning as Dream surrounds him. “Want you like this forever,” He moans, stopping halfway to give a pull back and gently thrust back in.

“You can have me like this whenever you want. ‘M all yours,” Dream cries when George bottoms out, pressing his hips flush to the curve of Dream’s ass. 

“You are,” George breathes out, holding Dream tighter as he begins to move, “You’re mine. No one else gets you like this, I’m the only one.”

Dream nods the best he can, damp curls sticking to his forehead as his hands curl into useless fists, letting the motion of George’s thrusts rock him against the counter.

“No one else,” He babbles, his lips pink and shiny with spit. He looks fucked out already, lost in his own pleasure and George works hard to keep him like that, angling his hips until Dream takes a sharp inhale, his mouth dropping open further as George nails his prostate. 

“Beautiful boy,” George whispers, over and over until he can feel the sharp coil of his orgasm building. He brings a hand down to Dream’s cock, coaxing him over the edge before he lets himself go, pushing in as deep as he can as he fills Dream. 

Dream moans softly as George cums, a hand reaching blindly behind him until George tangles their fingers together.

“I still don’t think I’m used to the feeling of cum inside me,” Dream says, laughing softly.

“Do you think if I do it enough times you’ll get pregnant?” George hums, not moving to pull out. He’ll wait until Dream tells him to as he always does.

“What? What the hell is wrong with you?” Dream turns to look at George over his shoulder.

“One of these days it’s bound to work. Unless you’re infertile.” George tells him matter-of-factly. 

“No, it’s- Ok, pull out, you idiot,” Dream tries to shove at him. George pulls out with a disappointed noise, quickly replacing his dick with his fingers. Dream makes a noise of surprise, unable to help himself as he pushes back on them. 

“You’d like being pregnant, I think.” George wiggles his fingers gently, listening to the soft noises of overstimulation Dream lets out.

“You’re such a freak.”

“Mm, maybe.” George agrees, pulling his fingers out. Dream slumps against the counter in exhaustion, letting George wet a paper towel to clean them both up and wipe down the counter. He helps Dream pull up his shorts on wobbly legs and leads them to the sofa, collapsing together in a tangle of limbs.

“You would like to be a dad though, wouldn’t you?” George asks after a minute, petting Dream’s head gently.

“Hm?” Dream hums, sleepy.

“Like, obviously I was joking about you being pregnant. But you want kids, right?”

“One day, yeah.”

“You’d be a really good dad, I think.”

“Yeah?” Dream laughs, turning his head to look at George.

“Yeah. You’re really good at like, being understanding and patient. And having a lot of love to give, I dunno. I think any kid would be really lucky to have you as a dad.” George shrugs, trying to seem casual. 

It makes his head spin a little, thinking about the future like this. Having kids, getting married. George never thought that would be a possibility for him, not with Dream or anyone else. He'd imagined a life of loneliness, of loving from a distance. He used to stand in the kitchen of his flat in London and think of Dream standing in his own kitchen an ocean away.

His mother had once told him that to love someone was to cook for them, and that's why she cooked for him and his sister every night. He thinks now of how Dream is the one who cooks for him every night, how Dream once said he cooks more with George here and George does too, cooks whatever he can for Dream with his limited ability. His heart aches in a painfully lovesick way.

“You would be too. I know you don’t think so, but you would. We’d have really good kids.”

“We?” 

“Obviously,” Dream snorts, “I’m not having kids with fucking Sapnap.”

“Ew, you better not.” George wrinkles his face.

“Don’t worry, idiot. The only person I plan on having kids with and marrying in this house is you.”

“Oh, we’re getting married now, too?”

“Mm, no kids before marriage.”

“Fine, fine. We’ll need to start using condoms then, just to be safe.”

“Shut up, I cannot get pregnant.” Dream grins.

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

Dream swats him, holding back a laugh. “Yeah, alright. We can keep trying.”