Archive of Our Own

Dream is royally fucked.

On some level, he knew this already. It’s a lot more apparent today, though, with his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, his muscles still loose from orgasm, and the inside of his thighs covered in burning red hickeys and scratches and bites with George’s name on them.

He doesn’t want them to ever leave, if he’s being honest. He wants to cling onto the way they feel; make them a part of himself. He tries not to think about it too much as he tidies the en-suite, wisely avoiding his own reflection in the mirror.

He can’t remember for how long he’s been craving this. He didn’t dare ask for it, but it was a matter of time before he gave into the brazen touches, the fiery looks George sent his way.

He had a feeling that this thing between them didn’t only arise from tension. He felt it for the first time as soon as George landed in Florida, when it took him less than ten minutes to joke about Dream getting into his bed.

He knew it wouldn’t be the last of it, and while he takes pride in knowing he was right, it also fucks with his head in ways he can’t put into words.

There’s something electric every time they so much as come near each other. It’s like an unavoidable force urging them closer; it’s like a god is reaching down to Earth to push them forward and there’s nothing they can do but give in to their wishes.

Not that Dream is opposed to it. In fact, he’s thankful for it. He lacks the confidence to move on his own, which is why he didn’t ask for what he wanted until George blatantly offered, even if, deep down, he knew the chances of being rejected were fairly slim.

He’s lost deep into his own head by the time he leaves the bathroom. He didn’t think much of it, and maybe that’s on him, because George never leaves at night.

Then, again, he never gives him head, either. The script could’ve changed, for all he knows.

He likes to know it didn’t.

“Oh,” Dream says as soon as he walks past the door, meeting George’s eyes from across the room. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, hitting the floor with his feet. “Hi there.”

George smiles with a light press of his lips, standing up awkwardly. “Hi,” he replies, polite. His face is a little flushed and his eyes are as bright and wide as ever. He looks around once before arching a brow and asking, “is this gonna be weird now?”

“Not weird,” Dream is quick to assure, then shakes his head. It’s the last thing he wants. “Just thought you’d left.”

George rocks back and forth on his feet, pocketing his phone and glancing towards the door as though it personally wronged him. He sounds reluctant as he says, “I was— about to leave, actually.”

Dream winces. “I mean—” he says, his expression melting into a bashful smile. George peers like he’s trying to read into it. “You don’t have to.”

George’s lips curl up, and Dream lets go of air he didn’t know he was containing. All too quickly, the relieved gesture on his best friend’s face turns into the most obnoxiously smug expression Dream’s ever seen.

Scoffing lightheartedly, Dream rolls his eyes and asks, “what, idiot?”

“Nothing.” George simply chuckles, cocking his head to the side. “Does Dream wanna sleep with me?” he coos, pouting lightly, getting his bravado back way too quickly for Dream’s liking.

It sends a spike of adrenaline up his spine. He likes the way it tingles. “Mm. Dunno, maybe,” he says, pulling at the covers to get into the bed.

George keeps staring at him. He’s just standing there, arms crossed on his chest, looking like he owns the entire room.

It stirs something in Dream’s gut, but it also makes him feel uneasy.

He eyes George up and down, aiming for the same type of confidence. “So,” he starts, growing a crafty smirk to hide his nerves. He arches a brow and asks, “could you— y’know?”

“Yes,” George says quickly, shamelessly, rolling his eyes. There’s a certain amusement to his tone as he shakes his head. Because he knows exactly what Dream is doing, he doubles down, “I imagined it was you and everything.”

Dream chokes on his own spit.

Yeah, that one backfired.

He averts his gaze. George’s laugh curls into his ear and urges his teeth to sink in his bottom lip merely out of embarrassment, and deep down, something akin to pride.

It’s not strong enough for him to finish what he started, though. George seems to know that when he clicks his tongue and rounds the bed to stand in front of Dream, reluctant to let him get away.

“God, you’re easy,” he teases, running the tip of his tongue across his lips. He reaches out a hand, cards fingers through Dream’s fringe. “You’re just so easy.”

“Shut the hell up.” Dream cringes when his voice comes out a little strained. George surely enjoys it. Weak and unconvincing, he argues, “‘m not easy.”

George actually laughs. “Scoot,” he says, then sits on the edge of the bed, by Dream’s hip. His fingers fall from Dream’s hair, sprawling across his chest in no time. He must feel Dream’s heart racing beneath his skin. It’s probably why he softens. “‘Ts okay. You’re cute.”

Dream blinks slowly, hypnotized by the brightness of George’s eyes from up close. He wants to hunch forward and take a dive in them; let them swallow him whole. He stutters out a request, “so. D’you— wanna stay? Here, uh— tonight?”

George smirks, his gaze flicking between Dream’s eyes. “A tempting proposition.” Then, leaning in closer, “I’ll consider it. If you ask nicely.”

Dream thinks he’d like to jump off a bridge.

He swallows nervously, and God, he hates it. He hates how George can drive him utterly insane just like that, so effortlessly, with nothing more than his lip between his teeth and his voice pitched a certain way.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s annoyingly good at it. Dream was doomed from the start.

“C’mon, G,” he insists, giving him the puppy-eyes and moving a hand up to his thigh. George doesn’t flinch but he eyes it swiftly, seemingly content with Dream loosening up just barely. “You’ve slept here every night.” George’s brows shoot up. “You’ve slept with me every night.”

George tilts his head, his fingers playing with the chain around Dream’s neck. “So?” he asks. “I might not want that anymore, did you consider that?”

“You do, though,” Dream fights back, no hesitation. “You like it.” He sits up until his face is an inch from George’s; he’s so close that when George breathes, Dream feels it against his skin. “George,” he insists, but gets nothing but a mischievous smirk in return. He’s too weak to not give in. “Please?”

George seems pleased, alright. “There you go,” he congratulates as Dream rolls his eyes, squeezing his thigh only to get back at him. George seems to like having the upper hand. It shouldn’t be surprising—it isn’t. Something dangerous flashes across his smile before he adds, “what a good boy you are.”

Oh, no. Dream won’t let that happen.

“George,” he warns, because surely, George can’t keep getting away with it. Dream only gets a playful giggle in return. “Stop.”

There’s a fond smile on George’s lips when he leans forward, even closer to Dream’s face. “Wish you could see yourself right now,” he whispers, naturally flirty, like he gets every time they’re together. He wraps his arm around Dream’s neck, faking a pout, and says, “I’ll stop. If that’s what you want.”

It’s a game. Dream knows it’s a game; he knows they’re playing now. It feels like they’ve been doing it for months, if he’s being honest, but he couldn’t tell who’s winning.

George is in charge, of course. That’s not up for debate. Still, when he lets down his guard for long enough, Dream can see past the seemingly sturdy confidence—the rehearsed scenes and cheesy lines with an intended purpose.

There’s something George isn’t letting out, and Dream would like to see it. He’d like to get hold of it. Maybe, that way, he’ll be able to tear his own walls down.

He’d like to let George in, but he wants to see George too. It’s a two-way road; it’s fair game. Otherwise, it’s just—

“George,” Dream says in a small voice. They’re close enough for their noses to brush—it’s innocent. Green eyes fall to pink lips, if only for a split second of electric attraction. Then, rougher, he asks, “get into bed.”

George’s nerve melts into a lovely blush before he’s pecking Dream’s lips. “I have to change out of these glizzy boxers first.” Dream steals a kiss back. Quick, sneaky. George smiles, but continues like nothing happened, “then we can sleep.”

Dream nods in silence, acquiescent, with glistening eyes. He feels lightheaded, like all he wants to do is lean forward one more time and kiss his best friend stupid. Like, really kiss him. Make out with him or something. He wants to cup his cheeks and bring him closer and simply melt into his mouth and—

The door closes.

Dream slides down the bed lazily until his head is resting on the pillow. His heart is racing a mile a minute and there’s a stupid smile on his lips that he’s not sure how to get rid of.

There’s something screaming at him from within, but he’s not sure whether he should listen to it or not. It’s pretty loud and it doesn’t look like it’ll be leaving anytime soon, but it’s… scary.

It’s scary.

He really fucking likes George. The kind of liking that makes him lose all sense of rational thinking whenever he enters a room. The kind that makes him want to touch him and hold his hand and spoil him and take him out to dinner.

It’s the kind of liking he’d tell his friends about if they were in high school; the kind that makes his world teeter to the side whenever they kiss—which has technically only happened once, like, half an hour ago.

It’s the kind of liking that’s one look or one bite or one night together shy from turning into something bigger—something he won’t be able to hide anymore.

Not that he’s doing a great job right now.

George comes back a few minutes later and he looks like a new man. He’s wearing one of Dream’s hoodies and a cheeky smile—his go-to outfit when he wants to drive Dream crazy.

This time, he’s almost expecting it. He refuses to let it get the best of him, simply patting the empty side of the bed—the one George always occupies—and pulling George into a cuddle the second he lays down.

George hides in the crook of Dream’s neck and lets one of his hands sneak under his shirt, reveling in the soft expanse of his bare back. He rubs it slowly, tracing the line of his spine—up and down, and up again. Dream closes his eyes; he digs his nose in George’s hair, pressing a short kiss to his crown and keeping him as close as he can physically be.

They’re not usually like this. They cuddle, sure, but not like this. This is normally reserved for special days.

Today qualifies as a special day. Dream isn’t complaining.

Eventually, the movement of George’s hand slows down. His breath evens out; his skin grows warmer.

Only then is Dream able to properly fall asleep, lulled by the stranded sounds that escape his best friend’s parted lips and die into Dream’s collarbone.

One night together shy…

Maybe even less.

Things don’t change that much.

They haven’t kissed again—not on the lips, not even an innocent peck. They flirt a regular amount and spend as much time together as before. They sleep together, but they never sleep together. They hang out and they watch shows and talk until sunrise, and it’s okay.

It’s okay. It’s like it never happened.

They go to Dream’s event together, because they live together and they work together, and when Dream gets invited places, it’s somewhat implied that he has a plus one and it’ll be George. He’s always expected, and no one’s surprised when they walk through the door side by side.

They sit next to each other and stand next to each other, and it’s normal—it always is. People compliment Dream’s haircut and Dream thanks them; George simply smiles. The first few times, Dream thinks the territorial side of him will come out. He thinks George will make sure everyone knows he did that, and no one else.

It never comes. It’s like he thinks he can’t say he gave Dream a haircut without everyone knowing everything else that happened that day, in that bathroom. Like they might read too much into it and wonder what Dream, a millionaire, is doing getting his hair cut by his best friend instead of an overpaid professional.

He doesn’t risk it.

They get back home with sleepy faces and a safe amount of alcohol coursing through their bloodstream. It’s mostly lost its effect by this point of the night. They barely utter any words as they make their way upstairs—one of their mutual, unspoken agreements that make people wonder whether they can communicate telepathically or they just know each other that well.

They’re still quiet as they get dressed and go through their respective bedtime routines; they’re still quiet as they slip into bed next to each other, and take a deep breath each as though it’s the first time they’ve done so all day.

The dim light in the room and the soft color coating George’s cheeks make him look more beautiful than usual, which is saying a lot. He blinks slowly and looks so comfortable; Dream just wants to grab him by the waist and pull him in and peck his lips for one, two, three seconds.

So, that’s exactly what he does.

Next thing he knows, George is fully sober and wide awake. He looks up at Dream with glazed-over eyes and a sweet smile creeping onto his face. One of his hands settles on the back of Dream’s neck, and once again, it’s one, two, three…

George kisses him back. It’s a proper kiss, this time. It’s deep and gentle; their lips fit perfectly together and their tongues come to life when they graze each other, but everything else is still. They only hold each other closer and tighter and more lovingly, and Dream—

Dream feels that final push. He feels the fall; he feels the breeze burning against his face and the way his limbs give into gravity. What’s curious is that he never seems to hit the ground. It’s more like free falling. There’s a certain intrigue to it; a rare kind of anticipation.

His hands tighten around George’s waist, pulling him even closer, pressing him against his chest. As he breathes evenly through his nose, he clears his mind of all thought. He sighs into his mouth and tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, and George chokes on air, burying his hands deeper in Dream’s hair.

George chuckles when he breaks apart—a short, bright, dizzying melody. Dream frowns with his eyes still closed, bringing their foreheads together.

George shakes his head slowly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Idiot,” he slurs, shifting in place to hide in the crook of Dream’s neck. “Too sleepy,” he says, and leaves one last kiss on his collarbone. “Talk tomorrow.”

Dream is too dazzled to answer before falling deep into slumber.

Like it never happened.

George is gone by the time Dream wakes up.

The mattress is cold where it’s empty, but there’s an indentation in the shape of George’s head carved onto the pillow. The hoodie George was wearing the night before is discarded at the foot of the bed. There’s a phone charger plugged into the wall and a glass of water on George’s bedside table.

George isn’t there, but his presence lingers.

Dream thinks about it, sometimes. He thinks about how George made the room theirs as soon as he had the chance; how it never felt invasive, but rather natural. It confused Dream, at first, but now he simply can’t imagine the past few months going any other way.

He can’t imagine sleeping alone or only seeing George a few hours a day. He can’t imagine entering his room and not finding George sitting against the headboard, scrolling on his phone, playing with Patches or peeking through his stuff.

George has always been a part of his life, but Dream has come to realize that him being a part of his routine is way different. It’s something he hadn’t really considered before they moved in together.

It’s intriguing. He likes it.

The first thing George does after he ends his stream is text Dream to ask if he’s awake. The second thing he does is barge into the room as soon as he gets a reply, only stopping to lock the door behind him.

Dream looks up at him from where he sits at the edge of the bed. Confusion flashes across his features, but George doesn’t even give him time to blurt out a question.

“I have to talk to you,” he announces, walking towards Dream. He stands between his legs and places a hand on his shoulder, effectively getting his full attention. It’s always been easy for him. “Can I talk to you?”

Dream clears his throat as one of his hands flies instinctively to George’s waist. “Uhm— Sure, yeah,” he nods. “What’s up?”

George squints like he’s looking at abstract art. One, two, three seconds. Then, he leans down until his nose is brushing Dream’s, his eyes so close that Dream can read every last one of George’s thoughts in them. “Hi,” he whispers, still trying to gauge Dream’s reaction.

Dream is too busy short-circuiting to come up with anything coherent.

His gaze flicks up and down George’s face almost on instinct. He can’t help but check out his lips, shiny and pink and a little chewed on, curled up into a rather knowing smile Dream can’t quite put his finger on.

When his eyes find George’s again, there’s something telling him he did something right.

It’s only emphasized by George’s sudden urge to sit on his lap, with his legs on either side of his hips. “I see.” He hums nonchalantly, like he doesn’t know or care that Dream is about to pass out from a heart malfunction. “You want me, huh?”

The hint of surprise in his tone is much more jarring than the position George put them in, or even the words he utters. “What?” Dream asks, brows knitted, still studying his best friend’s face. It seems stupid to even— “You—” he tries, then takes one more deep breath to build up courage, and finally asks, “you didn’t— know that?”

George rolls his eyes, running fingers through Dream’s fringe. “You didn’t start anything,” he explains, barely letting it out through gritted teeth. If Dream didn’t know George better, he’d say he looks… insecure. He clears his throat. “I’ve been very patient, y’know?”

“You mean since—” Dream starts, but quickly cuts himself off when George rubs their noses together, nodding once. “Well, it’s— normally you start things, so I thought—” George frowns. “Maybe you didn’t want to—”

“You’re stupid if you think I don’t want you,” George cuts him off, wrapping his legs around Dream’s waist, making his blood boil. Dream swallows thickly and pulls him closer—sheer, red want getting hold of his senses. George doubles down. “I always want you, idiot.”

Dream knows the feeling all too well. It’s why he refuses to waste another second; why he immediately kisses George.

It’s… different, to say the least.

It’s a sweet middle ground between the soft, loving kiss they shared the night before, and the chaotic crash of lips from a week ago—teeth and spit, bound to linger.

This kiss is all of that combined. It’s hot and passionate and a little messy, but it’s also soft and tender, making Dream feel connected to George in all the right places. He takes George’s bottom lip between his teeth and nips at it softly, losing his mind over the pleased smile it gets him.

One of George’s hands moves to Dream’s jaw. He thumbs at his skin before trailing down, grazing the side of his throat with the tips of his fingers. Dream wants more of it. He always wants more of George.

“You always have me,” he rushes to say, before his brain has the time to come up with something more stupid. He speaks the words into George’s mouth as his hands move higher up his back, following the line of his spine. Something twists in Dream’s stomach. “Have me.”

George cracks a smile; shakes his head. “No.” Dream stops in his tracks, more than ready to back off completely. George groans in complaint, kissing his way to Dream’s ear to whisper against it. “I need you to know you have free rein,” George says, hand buried in Dream’s hair. “Prove it to me.”

Dream’s breath hitches in his throat. “What?”

“You need to start asking for what you want, Dream,” George explains, his voice low, addictive. It fuels a different kind of excitement. He trails a teasing finger down Dream’s neck and right above his collar. “You can’t expect me to do everything all the time.” He follows the line across his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. He stops right above the waist of his sweats, and whispers, “go on. Ask.”

A wave of heat urges Dream to press his eyes shut. With his heart beating steadily in his chest, he surges forward and buries his face in George’s neck, taking sensitive skin between his teeth. It’s probably the unexpectancy that earns him the sweet, musical moan that follows, breathed right into his ear, paired with a smooth roll of hips.

George gives up on teasing for the first time in his life, and his arms move back up until they’re fully wrapped around Dream’s shoulders. Dream can feel him striving to keep still, even with his half-erection pressing against Dream’s lower stomach. He almost sees the obnoxious grin he’s flashing, just as sharp as the nails scratching at his highest vertebra.

Ask, Dream. Just ask.

“Can I—” Dream starts, slips the words in between groans. “Can I touch you?”

With a deep chuckle, George tightens his legs around Dream’s waist. “Where?”

Dream wants to curse him out. They’ve barely done anything but his head is already spinning faster than that time in the bathroom. It’s the knowledge of what’s coming; the need to return the favor. Dream was built to please. It’s what he wants the most.

“Your back,” he elaborates, per George’s request, climbing up George’s neck to start another hickey right under the line of his jaw. George nods slowly, content with Dream using his words. “Your waist.”

George nods again, granting Dream a roll of his hips that gets him almost all the way there. “Is that all?” Dream hums affirmatively. “Go ahead.”

It’s only a second until a pair of big, shaky hands is slipping under George’s clothes. The skin of his back is smooth and warm; his waist small under Dream’s palms. Dream digs his fingers in the soft flesh until their chests are pressed flush together and he can feel George’s heart beating in tandem with his own.

He feels a little lightheaded, but it’s welcome. It’s new to him—with the fact that his sex life has been pretty much stagnant since he started YouTube, and his big queer discovery happening only a handful of months ago.

George’s sounds are low-pitched and come from the depths of his chest. His hands are lithe but clumsy either way, no matter how much more experience than Dream he seems to have.

He grinds down on Dream’s lap and it’s like he studied all the perfect angles right before this, because never in his life has Dream felt so much from messing around with someone when they’re both fully clothed.

It’s so different, he thinks, in the heat of this moment, to be with a man. Or to be with George. He can’t be sure which one it is; if not both.

Dream rides George’s shirt up further, digs his fingers in the spaces between his ribs. “Fuck,” he breathes out, breaks apart, and begs, “kiss. Please, George.”

It’s almost evil how much George seems to be enjoying this; like he’s made it his mission to tear Dream apart. “Where, Dream?” he insists, even sharper than before, ghosting his lips over Dream’s mouth but making sure he doesn’t have enough wiggle room to get what he wants. He smirks. “You need to be more specific.”

It drives Dream fucking crazy. “Fuck, George, just—” He’s not sure what it is. He’s never had any problem stating what he wants but this situation is unlike any other he’s ever been in. Something in his brain is telling him to not give in so easily; give George the chance to press a little bit further. He likes how he gets. “Anywhere,” Dream mumbles, eyes half-open, parted lips. George doesn’t deem it good enough. “Just— God, mouth. Give me—”

George doesn’t torture him further. He gets rid of the space between them, bringing their lips together in a deep, slow kiss.

The change in energy is almost too jarring. It becomes progressively more gentle; a soft drag of lips and muffled sounds, gentle fingers in blond curls and curious hands exploring skin.

Dream wonders in silence how long it’ll be since he irretrievably loses his mind—until his brain breaks down and all he can summon is an endless mantra of George, George, George. He’s not too far off; he’s been toeing that line for a while. The way his best friend looks at him isn’t helping.

George’s eyes are hypnotic. Dream can’t explain what possesses him when he sees them, but all he can do about it is grab George’s waist tighter to help him lay down on his back, flushed and pretty, burning right under him.

Dream breathes heavily through his mouth and takes him in—the stark contrast of his dark brown hair against the white sheets, the blush ghosting over his cheeks, the way his leg feels when it curls behind one of Dream’s and presses him down closer.

When he finds George’s eyes again, Dream’s arms threaten to give out. He breathes against George’s jaw, closing his eyes to focus on the gentle fingers scratching at his stubble. It’s almost too much to handle.

“What a pretty mess you are. And we haven’t even done anything,” George says, pressing a sweet kiss on Dream’s cheek, right under his eye. “Didn’t I tell you it’s better if you ask for what you want?” Dream twitches, a low-pitched groan rumbling in his chest. George rolls his hips up, a knowing smirk on his face. “Y’know I can give it to you.”

“Wanna make you come,” Dream blurts out, one of his hands squeezing George’s thigh to give himself a better angle. He feels foolish doing it, grinding on him like a horny teenager, but he can only control so many parts of his body with George clouding his senses like this. His brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t seem to be one of them. “Wanna eat you.”

George’s moan gets stuck in his lips, so Dream rushes to kiss it free. He lets it roll on his tongue and down his throat, beelining to his stomach and fueling the fire that’s been burning bright since before he can remember.

“Can I?” he insists, asking, like George taught him. George nods; hums an affirmation. His eyes are closed and his teeth are breaking into his lip, sunk deep and sharp as knives, just like George himself. Dream cracks a teasing smile. “Words, baby.”

“Oh, fuck you.” George groans, but Dream swears he can hear his heartbeat pumping against his neck. He kisses George’s lips again, insatiable. “Yeah, you can. Of course you can.”

Dream props himself up just barely, giving George some room to move. “Take your shirt off.” One of his hands sprawls out across George’s stomach. He feels him shudder, smiling faintly as he squirms in place to get rid of his shirt as quickly as possible. Dream follows his lead, and once both pieces of clothing are discarded on the floor, he instructs, “roll over.”

As he looks into his eyes, Dream has the burning realization that George knows exactly what he’s doing to him. On a regular day—or with any other person—he thinks he’d be embarrassed of wanting so much, so strongly. With George it’s different; he would definitely agree. Dream knows he can’t be blamed, not after years, years, years of waiting patiently for every last domino piece to fall into its designated place.

He gets lost in George’s smile when he looks up at him again; hypnotized by the soft expanse of his bare torso and the curve of his back when he finally lays on his stomach. Dream follows the line of his spine with his gaze and traces a mental map of all the moles and dimples where he wants to put his lips on—draw hearts and butterflies in the form of loving kisses, paint his love red and permanent on George’s body like a tattoo.

Dream likes it gentle. He can have fun and let the most primal side of him take control every once in a while, especially when everything feels so new, so exciting, almost electric. At his core, though, it’s a little different; he likes the intimacy. He’s pictured it before, way too many times to count—stuff like the sound of rhythmic breathing, the humid warmth of open-mouthed kisses, the blurred lines hiding in the comfort of a dark room. He likes the idea of fucking George slow, taking his time to know him inside and out and inside again, show him how much he wants him and likes him and loves him in every way he knows.

George is special; Dream’s always sensed this. He’s an enigma for most people, but Dream knows that all it takes is figuring out how to read him, how to navigate him. Then, he’s an open book. Dream is fluent in his language.

He wasn’t sure how George felt about it—being known so well by someone like him, someone he didn’t even know in person up until not too long ago. Now, Dream thinks it’s silly to even wonder. George begs to be known; it’s just that not too many people take the time to actually do it.

Dream puts his hands on either side of George’s waist to hike him further up on the bed. George lets go of a pleased sigh, and Dream can’t contain the smile that escapes him. George is worth the time; he’s worth the effort. He feels like the luckiest man in the world just because he gets to know him.

He bends down, resting his weight on his elbow, right next to George’s head. He digs his nose in the crook of his neck and kisses his nape for one, two, three seconds. The contrast of the cold metal of the gold chain against his lips makes Dream feel alive. George curls his arm back and grabs at his hair, turning his head just barely with a smile plastered onto his face.

“Y’look so good like this,” Dream mumbles, nipping at his lobe before kissing it again, wrapping his free hand under George’s stomach and pressing himself to his back. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“You will,” George rushes to say, low, breathless. Then, when his honesty peeks through, “you do.”

Dream starts trailing down his skin, kissing and biting and sucking around his shoulder blades, his spine, his ribs. George muffles perfect little sounds into the mattress and fights for his life to remain still and not tell Dream to hurry the fuck up, but he’s not entirely successful. He’s thinking about it so hard that Dream can hear it from where he is.

He ghosts his lips over the curve of his waist, the soft flesh of his side. “Stop thinking,” he whispers through a smile, lightly pinching George’s hip. “Let me take my time with you.”

“I can’t,” George groans. “My dick hurts.”

Dream laughs; George follows. The whine in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed, though, so Dream hooks his finger in the waist of George’s shorts and boxers and decides to stop torturing him, pulling them both down in one graceless move.

“Dream,” he repeats breathily, turning his head the best he can to spare a glance at him. Dream looks up. “Don’t tease too long.”

Dream softens, nodding with a smile and kissing the side of George’s hip. He goes straight to his lower back next, tasting his skin with the tip of his tongue and breathing against him, hands firm where they wrap around his thighs to keep him in place.

George’s smell is addictive, manly—a hot and perfect mix of sweat and Dream’s soap, hinting at him showering here this morning before he left. His skin here is even nicer, softer, and the flesh of his ass is begging for Dream to dig his fingers in, like it knows about his lifelong obsession with it.

It’s not hard for Dream to give it what it wants. He gives himself space with one of his hands, touching and squeezing and pinching, and George moans one more time, grinding down on the bed like he can’t fucking help it.

“Oh, my God, Dream. If you don’t—”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he cuts him off earnestly and presses his nose to George’s tailbone, close yet not close enough to where he’s required to be. “You’re just so fucking—”

George doesn’t let him finish before he’s pushing back slightly, letting Dream press a shy kiss to his skin. He goes for one more, experimentally, and then another one. He works himself up to finally open his mouth and give George exactly what he asked for.

When he does, the reaction is immediate—like an electric shock that serves as a violent reminder of Dream’s own arousal, throbbing uncomfortably and begging for attention inside his sweats. He favors George’s pleasure, though—not only because it’s the least he can do, but also because it’s what he wants.

He grips George’s hips tighter and flattens his tongue against his rim, closing his eyes to not let his focus slip away. He starts licking inexpertly, in and out and in again, but giving it his everything either way because this is George, and he deserves all of Dream’s best efforts. Dream always goes out of his way to make himself the best for him.

By the sound of it, George deems it good enough. His soft noises bounce off the walls—an everlasting echo of the pleasure Dream incites—and Dream is set on committing them to memory, making them bounce inside his head instead, like a ping-pong ball.

He seeks friction against the bed when his want becomes unbearable, moaning right into George and doing it one more time when he tries to clench around him. His skin feels like it’s on fire. It comes paired with the realization that he wouldn’t care even if it was; there’s no way he’d stop and get himself out of this situation. He’d much rather be burned alive.

Sex with George is different. Different than any other sex he’s had in his life; different than what he thought it was supposed to be like. There’s a side of his brain telling him that it’s because he’s in love, but he knows that’s not the only reason. There’s something else—something primal—in the way he wants George. It feels like he was built for it.

Reluctantly, he moves an inch away to breathe. He opens his eyes and sees George’s little hand curled around the sheets, all white knuckles and creased skin, holding on like his life depends on it. His grip eases barely when he doesn’t have Dream’s tongue inside him anymore, but he doesn’t move it away.

Dream sinks his teeth in his bottom lip, reaching out his own hand to take George’s and squeeze, getting his attention back. George wiggles in his grasp until their fingers are intertwined—awkwardly bent from this angle but altogether sweet, keeping them connected.

“Doing good, sweetheart?” Dream asks with a deep voice. He feels his lips numb and spit dripping down his chin; he wonders how he looks. He wonders if George would like it.

George nods, squeezing his hand once. “So good,” he answers, just as breathless. Dream notices his other hand lost in his own hair. A little broken, almost pleading, “why’d you stop?”

Dream bites and kisses his skin some more, starting to suck a mark high up on his thigh. “Sorry. Wanted to make sure,” he explains, softly caressing the side of George’s waist.

“Come back,” he whispers, so low Dream doesn’t think he was supposed to hear it.

He cracks a smile; his heart beats fast inside his chest, just as demanding as his hard cock, waiting impatiently for release. “Can you, like, hold yourself up a bit?” Dream asks. “It’ll be a better angle for you.”

George shakes his head to the best of his ability. “No, Dream, I—”

“That’s okay,” Dream rushes to say, letting go of George’s hand to prop himself up on the mattress. Hovering over George’s back, he moves up on the bed and reaches out for one of the pillows.

Dream realizes he hasn’t looked at George’s face in a while. He’s blinking slowly; breathing evenly. He’s striving to keep still—cheeks rosy, lips parted. The hint of a smile grazes his mouth. Dream puts down the pillow next to his body and leans down to kiss his cheek.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says because he can’t help it, but also to work him up even more before going back down on him, to make this easier for them.

George hums in contentment, grabbing at Dream’s hair again. “You’re good at that,” he praises, rolling his hips back against Dream’s crotch, his clothed dick perfectly aligned with his ass. Dream swallows down a noise to the best of his ability.

“Mm. Thank you,” he replies with a soft smile, dragging his lips across the skin of George’s neck. He presses another peck right behind his ear, and one more on his pulse point, where his heart beats so fast Dream can hear it over the sound of his own.

George pulls his hair. “Want you to fuck me,” he says, and Dream feels the heat cursing through his veins like an electric torrent. It pools in his stomach and melts him from the inside. “Not now,” George clarifies. “But—”

Maybe Dream is easy after all. “Whenever you want,” he promises. It’s not hard to find that he means it.

There’s a giggle, and then George’s hand falls. “‘M really close, Dream.”

“Don’t worry,” Dream says, smiling against the shell of George’s ear before kissing him one last time. He beckons him to raise his hips for a moment to slip the pillow underneath him, and when it’s in place, he assures, “I got you.”

They get into a rhythm after that. Dream puts his mouth back on him; it’s like a religious experience of some kind. He can’t remember for how long he’s been craving to have George like this, but he knows he wasn’t too subtle about it. Having access to such a private, vulnerable part of him is making him dizzy. He feels himself get closer to the edge, too.

He sneaks one of his hands under George’s body again and wraps his fingers around George’s cock. He’s hot and hard and leaking, and it takes Dream exactly three more seconds to make him come in his palm, with Dream’s name stuttering past his lips. George says Dream’s name often, in many ways. This, he thinks, is one of his favorites.

He strokes George a few more times so he can ride out his orgasm, but when it’s finally out of the way, he realizes that he can’t ignore his own erection any longer. He’s incredibly close already, to the point where almost any sort of friction will push him over the line.

Pressing his eyes shut, he pulls his pants down. “George, I—” he cries out, retrieving his hand and wrapping it around his cock. His legs shake, threatening to give out.

“You can—” George mumbles, reaching a hand down and grazing Dream’s thigh with his fingers. “On me. If you want.”

Dream’s teeth find his bottom lip like a famished lion seeks out its prey. If he doesn’t draw blood, it’s pretty darn close. He’s hypersensitive; hyper-aware of everything around him. He pumps once, twice, and before he realizes he’s hunched forward on the bed, hovering over George, and painting the soft expanse of his back with his release.

His chest heaves; his skin tingles. A coat of calm falls on his shoulders like pouring rain. Dream lets it wash over him. He drops his weight on George with a huff, and cracks a smile when George groans in feigned complaint, still coming down from his high.

“You’re crushing me,” George says, wiggling under him. Dream feels his own cum against his stomach. It’s a little gross. He can’t bring himself to care.

“Sorry,” he answers, kissing whatever inch of George he can reach. It happens to be his shoulder blade. “Need a minute.”

George sighs deeply, becoming soft and malleable. Dream grabs one of his hands and intertwines their fingers. George buries his free one in Dream’s hair again, because he also has his little obsessions; his little rituals. Who’s Dream to tamper with that?

“Too good?” George asks, and his tone is teasing but equally as curious. Dream wants to put him in his pocket.

“Really good,” he says easily, against George’s jaw. George giggles, probably because Dream’s stubble tingles. So Dream nuzzles closer only to annoy him, and shares his bubbling joy like they share a drink, or years worth of longing for times like this. “I’m— George.”

George is beaming, turning his head towards him. His lids are heavy and his expression lines are more visible than ever. He shines so bright Dream can’t look him in the eyes without getting blinded by his glow. “What, Dream?” he asks, gentle and musical, light like a feather.

Dream kisses his head. “I’m so— gone for you,” he confesses, squeezing George’s hand in his, drawing circles with his thumb across the back. “I think I’m, like, actually obsessed with you.”

There’s something hiding under George’s eyes, like a contained flame. Dream feels it prickling his own skin; he sees it trying to let itself loose. George’s lips part like he’s about to say something. His face reddens, his smile widens, and he kisses Dream on the lips.

Dream only breaks apart for two seconds to get in a better position. George lets go of his hair and wraps an arm around his neck instead, bringing him down to lay by his side. He keeps kissing him, taking and taking and taking—breathing heavily through his nose, pressing him to his chest. It’s a lazy kiss; a gentle kiss. Dream has seen married couples kiss like this. He doesn’t mind it.

George moves away first; Dream pecks him one last time, and then extends the same courtesy to the tip of his nose. His heart skips a beat when he sees George scrunch it on reflex. It’s the single most adorable thing he’s seen all day.

I love you dangles from his lips, but he doesn’t dare say it.

“You’re getting cum on the sheets,” George scolds, clicking his tongue. “Get something to clean us up.”

“Me?” Dream asks, rolling his eyes, but he’s already starting to get up to do as told. He doesn’t feel like fighting George. He’d give him anything he asks for.

“Yes,” he says. “My knees hurt for days after the last time, Dream. It’s your turn to do all the work.”

Dream smiles and rolls his eyes. Right before getting up, he kisses George’s highest vertebra. “Alright, fine.”

He walks away from the bed on shaky legs. He feels relaxed, content, comfortable. George brings out the best in him—it’s how it’s always been. He likes the idea of having him; he likes thinking that there could be some permanency to this, too. He hopes that’s the case.

“Brush your teeth!” George yells from the bed as soon as Dream steps into the en-suite. The grin he wears is audible when he says, “that mouth of yours has been in some dubious places.”

Dream laughs, disbelieving. “You kissed me, idiot!”

“Yes, and I regret it.” Dream barks out a laugh. He doesn’t buy that for one second. “I wasn’t thinking properly.”

He puts a washcloth under the warm water and wipes his chest and stomach. His cheeks hurt; he feels giddy. He brushes his teeth like George asked, and there’s a little part of his brain calling him a simp the entire time. He gets it, though. It’s a fair request.

George is still on his stomach when Dream goes back to the room—his head buried in a pillow, ass up and exposed for the world to see. Dream doesn’t take pride in saying he squeezes it in passing, just once. Realistically, he can’t be blamed. It looks—in true George fashion—delectable.

He presses the washcloth to George’s lower back and carries on with their conversation like nothing happened, like they’re used to. “All I’m hearing is I ate your ass so good it gave you brain damage.”

George scoffs halfheartedly, like he didn’t expect it. The back of his ears turns pink. Weakly, he retorts, “you have brain damage, idiot.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dream grants, flashing a cheeky smile even though George can’t really see it. “One-track mind syndrome.”

A soft hum rumbles under Dream’s hand. He wipes the last off of George’s back and throws the cloth in the laundry hamper to deal with later, along with his and George’s dirty underwear. He gets a clean pair of boxers for both of them—George’s clothes are split between his room and Dream’s, but the majority of it is here—and throws one of his own shirts at George’s head.

George peers at him as his lips curl up. He hums again in consideration, looking at the fabric in his hands with a knowing smile. “And what’s this track in question?” he asks as he puts it on. He takes his chain out, letting it rest on his chest for Dream to look at. It’s very considerate of him.

Dream takes a moment, then, to simply look at him. He smiles to himself as he moves away the dirty pillow and sheets, tidying the bed the best he can so he can at least lay peacefully for a few hours. He thinks of George’s question, all while surrounded by the remaining heat; the lingering smell of sweat. This room has never felt more theirs.

It might be the sex; it might be the fact that George is cuddly and clingy and ten times softer than usual, and Dream likes that. Honesty tastes better today. “You,” Dream answers finally, taking his rightful spot on the bed next to him. George breaks even more, letting Dream get closer to his heart with each day that goes by. “Obviously. You knew that.”

“Hm. Maybe I did.” He shrugs, wrapping his arms around Dream’s shoulders. George pulls him close to his chest and Dream thinks he’d like to be lulled to sleep by the sound of his even breathing; the pulse of his beating heart. George seems to agree. “Sleepy time.”

“It’s noon,” Dream argues with a smile, but closes his eyes all the same because every battle with George is a losing battle for him. He nuzzles into George’s collarbone; batts his lashes against his skin in a butterfly kiss.

“Don’t care.” It’s George’s turn to kiss Dream for no reason. He presses his lips to his forehead, carding fingers through his curls. It’s sweet; it’s domestic. Dream could get used to it. He returns it right over George’s heart, and feels him smile back at him before calling for his name. “Dream?”

Dream drapes an arm around George’s waist. “Hm?”

George hesitates, but he doesn’t back down. Shy, small, he whispers, “I like this with you.”

I love you, Dream thinks again. He doesn’t say it.

“Yeah,” he answers instead, looking up at George with bleary eyes. His waist is warm under Dream’s hand. He holds it tighter. “We make a good team.”

George’s smile widens in the way it does when he finds Dream exceptionally endearing. “Yeah. Guess you could say that.”

I love you. He writes it with his fingers, hoping they’ll burn on George’s skin. Maybe they’ll leave a mark that he can find and read tomorrow; maybe by then, he’ll already know.

“We do,” Dream insists, and presses a last kiss to his neck, where a bruise from earlier is starting to darken. It’s a good thing George streamed earlier today; he can take a couple days off.

“Sleep,” George whispers sweetly; golden, like an angel. He taps his fingers on Dream’s back to an unknown pattern. “Sueño.”

Dream smiles.

I love you.

Next time. He’ll tell him the next time.