Snapdragons

by lasciviess

Summary:

For a long time, George has known he loved the bite of rope against his skin, and the feeling of brightly stinging pain, but he's never had someone to help him feel it. That is, of course, until he meets Dream: tall, handsome, domineering, and all too good at making him fall to absolute pieces. And so begins an arrangement: George goes over to his flat, he's fucked within an inch of his life, spends the night, and then goes along his merry way come morning. There aren't any strings attached, and it's glorious.

As the weeks come and go, though, George begins to realize that he's starting to feel a little more than lust when it comes to his thoughts about Dream. He knows better, he really does, and he knows there's no way in hell the other feels the same, but since when does anyone really have control over their heart?

Notes:

This is just an excuse to write incredibly lengthy, incredibly explicit, kinky porn (that also does have fluff in it eventually, I promise), and I’m not going to try and say otherwise. Quarantine sure has left me really fucking touch-deprived, and what better way to work through that than by writing shameless amounts of smut? There’s plot here, but I wrote this first and foremost to be horny lol. Anyway, enjoy.

As usual: don't repost, don't share to CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will obviously be taken down

Chapter 1: Shattering Intensity

Summary:

A meeting, a slide into pleasure, and a dizzying plunge into a chasm that's far deeper than George could have imagined.

Notes:

This is just an excuse to write incredibly lengthy, incredibly explicit, kinky porn (that also does have fluff in it eventually, I promise), and I’m not going to try and say otherwise. Quarantine sure has left me really fucking touch-deprived, and what better way to work through that than by writing shameless amounts of smut? There’s plot here, but I wrote this first and foremost to be horny lol. Anyway, enjoy.

As usual: don't repost, don't share to CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will obviously be taken down

UPDATE: Thank you to nyto/awakeuntilsunrise for providing some proofing long after publication. Holy SHIT did I have a lot of typos haha.

George doesn’t know how he’s gotten here, standing outside of a stranger’s door with curious but nervous arousal stirring in whirls deep in the pit of his stomach. 

He supposes it had started several years ago, deep in the hormone-hazed period of his teenage years, when he’d come across a video. In it, a woman, clad in a beautiful latticework of leather and latex, had been tied in complicated knots of silken cord, completely bound and at her partner’s mercy. He’d been entranced, almost too fascinated with the concept to remember he was supposed to be getting himself off, although he’d been so hard that he probably could’ve finished without even taking off his trousers. He could hardly even pay attention to the man tying her, the whips or the domineering touches he used, enraptured instead with the position she was in. 

He’d kept it a private interest for all this time, only ever going so far as to bind his legs in ties executed with trembling hands, or draw careful lattices up the length of his cock. He’d never brought it up with his ex-girlfriend, much too terrified of how she would think of him, fantasizing at being in her position; but now, that was over and done with, and George felt it had been the right time to finally address this part of him. 

The internet searches had been surprisingly straightforward, but he’d spent months lurking on local message boards and shockingly active websites before he felt confident enough to reach out to someone. 

The man he’d chosen went by the name Dream online, preferring to use a pseudonym out of a simple desire to preserve some anonymity, which he could respect. He didn’t include any photos of his face, but he certainly had given George plenty of pictures of what he liked to do in his free time. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d amassed an entire folder of Dream’s work, men and women alike bound in excruciating pleasure, and even just seeing it sent all of his blood rushing south. 

Beyond seeking him out to try and see if George’s fantasies still worked once they were translated into real life, he found that he and Dream got along quite well, actually. He’d been clear about his anxieties from the start, and the other had been nothing but patient and kind with him, talking him through different aspects of scenes and safe words and aftercare. He’d found out he was a generous man, that he played Minecraft in his spare time, that he had a cat whom he doted on without a care of excess. He’s the kind of man George would make friends with if he’d encountered him at university or in a bar somewhere. Ultimately, that was what convinced him to finally go through with this. 

While he knows he’ll wind up shedding all of his clothing at some point, he’s made an effort in putting on something nicer, fitted slacks that he’d been told showed off his ass, a pleasantly slimming button down, and the single nicest pair of underwear he owned. George fiddles with the buttons, made of aluminum and thankfully cool to the touch, as he finally raises a hand to press the buzzer on Dream’s flat. 

The noise almost makes him jump, heightening his nerves, but all of it fades the moment the door finally opens, revealing the mysterious man he’d been messaging (and getting off to) for well over a month now. He’s tall, towering over George, and peers down at him with a face cruelly handsome enough to cause his breath to catch. He’s wearing an easy, genuine smile that hangs beneath a smattering of constellation-like freckles framing bright, golden eyes, all set within the confines of elegant bones. George’s lips catch around empty air, trying to come up with words at the glorious sight. Why on earth he hadn’t plastered his face all over their conversations is a mystery to him. 

“Hey,” Dream finally says, American accent carrying a deep, lilting voice that’s easy on his ears. “Nice to finally see you in person.” 

George dumbly blinks up at him for a moment, feeling his heart rate tick up in his chest, and they haven’t even started anything yet. “Hi, I’m George.”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, that.

The other man cracks, wheezing laughter bubbling up in his chest. “No need to be nervous, just come in. Do you want tea? Coffee?” He’s gesturing for George to step through the threshold, and so he does. 

“Wouldn’t mind some tea.” 

The inside looks just like any other flat, and he isn’t sure why that surprises him. It’s simple, decorated in a way that just straddles the line between minimal and barren. Plants line the windowsills, and a row of mugs is drying next to his sink. It’s cozy in an unpretentious way, and it puts him at ease. 

As he’s taking it in, Dream has maneuvered himself over to his small kitchen, rifling through a drawer. “I’ve got saffron, jasmine, and rosehip tea. I think I have Earl Gray in the pantry somewhere, too, if you want me to look for it.”

“Oh, jasmine’s fine,” George doesn’t miss how almost all of those are jokingly referred to as aphrodisiacs of the tea world. “Do you mind if I sit?” He gestures to the black leather couch taking up a large slice of his living area. He finds the material it’s made of funny, given this context. 

Dream looks up at him, filling a small electric kettle with a tin of tea set to the side: loose leaf. “Oh, yeah, of course. Make yourself at home while you’re here. Like ninety percent of the point is for you to be comfortable with me, after all.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh at that before settling on the cushions that ended up being much plusher than he first thought. “Your flat is nice.”

He hears the motor of the electric kettle hissing behind him, slowly bringing the water to a boil. “Thanks, I guess. When my job moved me out here, it was all really sudden, and this was about the only half-decent option I could find. Glad to hear someone thinks I managed to make the place work.”

“What do you do for a living?” He asks, but quickly grows nervous about the silence that follows, immediately backpedaling. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me. I know that you like privacy.”

“No, no! It’s fine, really,” Dream rushes to fill the quiet now, and the kettle beeps in completion. “I’m just not used to anyone asking. People that find me through this sort of stuff are usually just here for the sex, you know? It’s hard to find someone who’s as open about it as they are, so they’re usually pretty single-minded once they’re through my door. It’s nice that you’re asking: I was just surprised.” He explains, laughing fondly at the end. “I work in tech. I don’t develop, though.”

George perks up at the mention. “Oh, I’m actually a software developer.” He twists so he can see over the back of the sofa, watching as Dream carefully pours steaming water over the tea filter. 

“Well, it’s no wonder we ended up messaging so much. Guess we’re a little bit similar.”

He hums in acknowledgement, eyes trailing over the other as he sits down next to him and extends a warm mug toward him. He examines the delicate bracelets that adorn his left wrist and a thin band on one of his right fingers. Taking the mug, the porcelain is pleasantly hot against his skin, and the steam coils around his face, bringing with it the delicate scent of dried flowers and bergamot. “Thanks.” Is all he says, bringing it to his lips to blow. 

Dream smiles at him again and, god, he has a lovely smile. There are dimples in his cheeks, to make things all the worse. “While you’re enjoying your tea, do you wanna talk about boundaries? Expectations?”

“I thought we’d already discussed that over text, though?” He’s a bit confused. Dream had walked him down an almost embarrassingly detailed checklist the other night, so he knew what he was and wasn’t comfortable with.

He shakes his head, eyes patient and generous. “It’s irresponsible to not check in like this. No such thing as being too sure, you know? For both you and for me.”

George realizes that it makes sense, because of course it does, and simply nods.

Dream stills for a moment to think before he begins. “Well, I’ll obviously be the one in control here, meaning it’s easier for me to avoid pushing my own boundaries but it also means I really need to be clear with what you are and aren’t okay with. We’ve talked about the colors, right?”

It’s easiest for both of us for me to just ask you for a color. Green if you’re totally comfortable, yellow if you’re uncertain, and red if you really want me to change what I’m doing. Use the safe word if you want me to stop.

He remembers the messages, and states accordingly.

“Good, good. Is there anything completely off limits at this point? I know you haven’t really done this before, so we can start slow, but I don’t want to take something in a direction you’re uneasy about.”

George thinks, trying to recall the videos he’d watched over the years, the stories and more clinical accounts he’d read. “I don’t- I don’t think I like the idea of being humiliated. Like, calling me awful names and such. I guess I don’t really know until I try, but I don’t want that for now.” 

He pauses as Dream nods in acceptance. “But are you still okay with punishment?”

He nods, the idea causing a drop of heat to trickle down the nerves of his spine. “Yeah, I’m alright with that. I also don’t want to be gagged,” He decides, knowing how little of a filter he had. “I want to be able to talk. That’s it for now, I think.”

“Alright,” Dream replies, voice relaxed but attentive. “I won’t degrade you, and I’m perfectly fine keeping your mouth unoccupied.” There’s a heavy suggestion there, the first hint at the real reason George is sitting on this couch. “On my end, I don’t do anything that breaks skin, no matter how much you want it, and I won’t kiss you, at least not on the lips.”

A part of George knows that this is an even exchange, no matter how well they get along. It’s not an exchange of money, but of satisfaction of needs. There isn’t meant to be romance here, but the idea of not even being able to kiss the man who’s going to hopefully fuck him senseless feels strange to him. “Alright. That works for me.”

Dream claps his hands together softly, closing the conversation. “Great. I’ll let you finish off your tea, and go get some stuff ready, if that’s alright with you?”

He nods, fingers wrapping around the cup more tightly as he watches Dream stand, watches the defined cut of his body gracefully walk its way around the couch before disappearing down the hallway. He has a great ass, and the jeans he’s wearing did nothing to hide it. The tight shirt clinging to his upper half also does nothing to hide the ripples of muscles across his shoulders. George feels himself swallow at the sight, hard. He suddenly forgets about his tea entirely.

He’s starting to get a little nervous again, fiddling with his fingers in his lap as he tries to sort through the confusing signals his body is sending him. Dream is incredibly attractive, there’s no doubt about that, and in a normal context, he’d happily jump into bed with him without a second thought. But this is different, he decides. He’s doing more than jumping into bed: he’s completely trusting Dream to take care of him , and the thought both scares and arouses him beyond belief. His cock twitches in interest, and he tries to swallow his own desire before it gets out of check. That will come later. 

He’s ultimately left to himself for a painful five or so minutes, running the pads of his fingers along the stitching on the couch, wondering how he’d look in leather; if he’d look as good as all the people Dream has been with in those photos. Where would he even buy stuff like that? Perhaps if he were to look online, he’d be—

His thoughts are interrupted by Dream clearing his throat in the distance, and he looks up to him leaning languidly in the entrance to the hallway, without a shirt and in leather pants that left none of him to the imagination. He can’t help but trail his eyes down the muscled expanse of his chest before dipping them along the defined v-shape etched into his pelvis. He has a look of nonchalance on his face; not yet putting up a front, but George can see him shifting. 

“Let’s get you ready, alright?” It’s phrased as a question, but he can tell it isn’t quite one. 

George stands, wordless, and walks toward him before coming to a stop right in front of the body blocking the entrance. Dream doesn’t move, instead bringing up a hand to softly grab at his chin, forcing him to look up into his eyes. He does so for some time, and the shorter feels his blood thrum underneath his skin, practically squirming under the intensity of his dark-eyed gaze. “God, I can’t wait to just ruin you, George,” His voice is a low rasp, deep and resounding in his ears, and it sends shock creeping down his spine in a sinfully sweet bite. “Do you want me to do that? Ruin you?”

The words stop him from being able to form any of his own, air stalling deep in his lungs. All he can do is nod.

“Come on now, I asked you a question.” He simply says, tone firm with expectations.

“Yes.” He finally breathes out, each passing second replacing his nerves with curious arousal. 

“Yes…?”

It takes him a moment to realize what Dream is exactly asking of him, but once he does, forcing the word out somehow feels like he’s admitting some kind of defeat, yet also giving himself permission to abandon himself to this. “Yes, sir.”

Dream smiles lazily at that, eyes slotting halfway shut in satisfaction and gently thumbing along his jaw. “So good for me, George. Promise you’ll keep being good for me?”

“Yes, sir.” He feels slightly more confident saying it this time, after hearing the praise from his partner. He’s doing good, he’s playing into this the right way. A part of him realizes he wants Dream to be pleased with him, and he supposes that’s kind of the whole point. 

“Good, good,” Dream replies, finally releasing the hold on his jaw just as he steps backward, drawing George’s face along with him as he subconsciously chases the touch. “This next part will take a little while, so you’ll have to be patient, okay?” There’s more of the casual voice Dream had spoken to him with when he first entered, dropping the façade he’s just started to put up for a moment. 

George swallows in anticipation, feeling his cock stir as he imagines what that could mean. “Are- are you going to tie me up?” He’d told Dream about this little desire of his. This had been what had started him off in the first place, after all, and he wants it so badly: to feel the sweet sting of rope biting into his wrists, his ankles, everything. There was only so much he could do on his own, but having Dream there? Not only did he no longer have to worry about doing any of the knots himself, but he could finally wrap himself in the more complicated rigging he’d spent so many nights fantasizing over. 

“Mm-hmm,” Dream confirms, the hum rumbling deep in his chest. “I’m going to tie you up so fucking pretty, George. Gonna wrap you up in rope until you can hardly move, and then I’m going to do anything I want to do to you. How does that sound?”

He can’t even breathe. “Oh, god. ”

As he says it, Dream finally leads him into a humble bedroom, dark sheets and fairly plain furniture. The lights are turned low, giving off a warm glow that doesn’t even quite reach the ceiling, and they illuminate a careful selection of items laid out on the bed: delicate ties of crimson rope, a silk sash, and things that George sincerely hopes are only the first act before he can finally feel Dream’s cock deep inside of him. If he walks away from this without getting truly and properly fucked, he just might burst into tears after the fact. 

He can sense Dream behind him, watching as he takes it in, and it’s not long before he speaks again. “Color?”

George’s mind is running wild as it trips over itself in an attempt to quell the lust rapidly rising inside of him. “Green.” He whispers. It’s a color he can’t see, but he means it.

“Strip.” There’s a command in his voice, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

He whips around to look at the ridiculously handsome man. “Wait, now? You want me to—”

Dream clicks his tongue, cutting George’s words short. “Strip, George. That wasn’t a request.” His eyes hold a sinister undercurrent, and he finds himself absolutely pulled into it. 

Cheeks gaining a thin glaze of blush, George can’t meet his eyes again and begins to undo the buttons of his shirt, passing each through its assigned hole in the fabric until he can shrug it off his shoulders. He shivers at the cooler air of the flat, feeling his nipples harden at the temperature change (and, well, there’s the fact Dream is looking at him like he wants to eat him alive, but that’s another matter). 

“Keep going.”

He does as he’s asked; no, told . His belt and socks are next, abandoned on the floor as he’s watched, silently, like Dream is evaluating an artwork in a museum or a difficult piece of code. His hands are shaking by the time he pulls down his slacks, hissing at the way they drag over his cock, already starting to grow, but not yet standing. Undressing in front of someone was always a strange ordeal, and he never really got over the vulnerability of it, but this felt somehow so much more intense. George stands there, only clad in black underwear that clearly shows off the fact that Dream is getting to him with nothing but his voice.

“I meant all of it, George. Don’t make me have to punish you so early.” Dream’s gaze flicks down to his semi, before travelling back up to meet George’s eyes, bashful and not wanting to return it. 

His heart thrums in his chest as he nods and slowly slips his thumbs underneath the waistband. He has to take a deep breath in order to steady himself and gather the courage to pull them downward, kicking them off to join the rest of his clothes, crumpled on the floor. George feels like he’s being appraised. 

Dream chuckles darkly before stepping forward and running a single finger, teasing and not nearly enough, from the hollow of his throat down to his navel. He shivers in its wake. “Oh, baby, you’re so beautiful for me. I bet you’d look so good on your knees,” Dream leans in, whispering the words directly into his ear. “With my cock deep inside of you, screaming my fucking name and grabbing onto the headboard like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. I just know you’d look so good like that, my cum all over your back or, fuck, leaking out of you. But, that’s not why we’re here today.” He pulls away, and George suddenly feels deprived, mind swimming in the fantasies he’d just whispered to him. “Get on the bed, on your back.”

“Yes, sir.” He murmurs, suddenly harder than he had been. He does as he’s told, the soft feeling of the blankets beneath him and the mattress dipping under his slight weight, before turning around and lying back, torn between looking at Dream or keeping his eyes fixed to the ceiling. 

“Now, do you want your arms behind you, or above your head? It’d be more comfortable the first time around above your head.” He’s back to that caring voice, patient and measured as he guides George into thoroughly unfamiliar territory.

He stutters for a moment, trying to get his thoughts into logical order. “I, um, above my head, then.”

“Color?”

“Green,” He confirms. “It’s not the bad kind of nervous.”

Dream smiles at him, soft yet confident, and begins his work. 

The process is almost torturously slow. He begins by simply arranging George the way he’d like him, and he’s immediately enraptured by his hands. They’re just so much larger than his, fingers long and capable and burning like fire as they trail over his limbs, moving him this way and that like a beloved toy. Once, they splay over his waist purely just to tease him, the touch fleeting, but he forgets how to breathe for a moment. It takes a while, Dream hadn’t been lying about that, but there’s something ritualistic about it, waiting as meters upon meters of soft rope are wrapped around him. First, it’s his legs, bent at the knee and tied to remain so, like he’d done to himself before, but the fingers which tie the futomomo are practiced, each move intentional and drawing with just the right amount of pressure. He can feel the skin of his slender thighs only barely squeezing out from between the rope strapped over them, and the press only makes his length grow harder. He’s fully up now, twitching and already leaking precum, and Dream hasn’t even touched him; not really. 

Dream sits back on his calves to evaluate his work so far. “Not too tight?” He asks, running another one of those fingers across the knots he’s tied. 

“No, it’s—” His hips subconsciously jerk at the touch. “It’s tight, but in a good way.”

He smirks down at him again before picking up the rest of the coil of rope currently wound around his right leg. “That’s the goal. Let me know if that changes.”

He repeats the same process with the other leg, before both are spread open and tied by trailing lines of rope to the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He feels embarrassed, spread like this, with his ass on display and his cock traitorously pulsing from want: exposed and jesus christ he’s so hard already it hurts.

His arms are next, and some of his nerves return at the prospect. Once this is done, George will completely and totally surrender all control to a man he’d only just met physically about half an hour ago. Granted, it had been one hell of an arousing half hour, but the reality of it sent a pulse of anxiety racing through him. 

“Okay,” Dream starts, seeming to notice his nerves. He can read him well, it turns out. “I’m not going to bind your arms together this time, alright? I’ll do them separately, and I’ll start with your non-dominant hand, so you can decide if it’s too much. Are you left- or right-handed?”

“Left-handed.” He manages to squeeze out, offering his right arm to Dream in order to try and grapple at a measure of confidence. 

He takes it in his own hands, briefly pressing a pair of surprisingly soft lips to his wrist out of reassurance, and George’s breath catches again at the tenderness of the gesture. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise, baby.” He sounds so sincere that it makes him ache. He believes him.

George can only nod as he feels several loops of rope close over his wrist, working up his forearm in a more solid bind before his arm is gently pulled upward and away from him, where Dream ties it to the bed frame. 

“Can you pull on that for me? Like you’re trying to get out.”

George does, softly tugging at the rope, and has to suppress a groan at the wonderful bite of it as he pulls. “It’s- it’s good. Not too tight.” He manages. It’s everything he thought it would be, and he only has his left hand, curled up low on his ribs, keeping him untethered from this fantasy he’d been coveting for years now. So close, and yet so far. 

Dream nods to himself, and walks around the other side of the bed so he can kneel next to George’s left. He takes his slender wrist in his palm and looks to him “Color?”

He can’t look away, no matter how much he wants to. The gaze is genuine, intense, and George wants to drown in it. “Green.” He whispers, finally accepting he’s giving himself over to this man. 

Dream ties his left hand to the headboard and, just like that, he’s completely out of control. 

When it’s all over and done with, Dream stands back, admiring his work and the way George’s thighs are trembling. His mind swirls with strange hormones and chemicals and god knows what else as he feels the constant loops of gentle pressure closing in on his flesh from all sides. 

“One last thing,” Dream says, before taking a particularly refined piece of rope in hand and reaching down to George’s hips. “You don’t get to come until I do, until I say you can, do you understand? Your hips don’t even move unless I tell you that they can.”

George knows what he’s about to do, and his head swims . “I don’t get to come until you say I can.” He reaffirms, having to violently tamp down a gasp when he feels the tie close around the base of his cock, neglected and all too throbbing. It’s closed tight: tight enough that he knows he won’t be able to come unless it’s undone, that it will eventually turn him an angry shade of deep red, but also tight enough that every single feeling there is suddenly so much louder until it’s almost all he can think about. 

There he is, bound up just like he’s always wanted to be, and the more reality sets in, the more surreal it feels. There’s euphoria creeping in, strange and almost hostile, as he feels Dream’s stare bore into him. 

“What a sight you are,” Dream murmurs, climbing on top of him and settling between his spread legs, so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of him on his own cock. “I knew you’d be so good for me, baby, and look at you. All tied up and ready, so happy that you’re just straining against that little sash I have around you. Do you feel good, George?” 

He can hardly choke it out, Dream so close that it’s infuriating. He wants to dig his hands into the other’s hair, drag him down and kiss him until he can hardly tell Dream’s tongue from his own, and it’s maddening to be restrained like this, completely at the other’s mercy. “I feel good, sir.”

A finger is running along his flesh again, feather-light and torturous. It crawls around his ribs, just barely catching his left nipple before dragging up and running along his jaw and finally settling at the corner of his mouth, caressing his dry lips. “How about I give you a reward, for being so good, hmm? For staying so still for me all that time?”

“Please.” 

George wasn’t sure what he had in mind until the finger at his lips pushes past them, sliding into his mouth before it presses deep onto the back of his tongue. He almost gags out of surprise, but reigns himself in. “How about I fuck your mouth, George?” Just like before, it isn’t really a question, and he shivers. “I know you’ve been staring, just wanting to taste my cock. And I’ll let you. You can have me down your throat, just like you want, until you won’t be able to talk tomorrow. How does that sound?”

He’s practically speechless. “Oh, my god.” He wants to feel it, wants to feel the other’s length deep in the back of his mouth as he struggles to breathe around him. He wants to feel out of control, at his partner’s mercy. For him, only for him.

“You like that, don’t you?” Dream sits back again, hands coming to rest on the buttons keeping his pants closed. George can see him straining against the shining fabric from here and holy shit he looks so big. He’s hooked up with men before, of course he had, but why did Dream look so much bigger? “You want me to use you all for myself, while you’re tied up and can’t do a thing.”

George nods, unable to say anything that would be meaningful. 

Dream finally undoes the fasteners keeping him hidden and, once they’re freed, he pulls out his dick, which he realizes now is only half-hard. He wants to feel him grow in his throat, wants to feel every centimeter of him. “Come on now, baby, open up that pretty mouth of yours so I can use it.”

He complies, parting his lips as Dream shifts so that he’s straddling George’s chest. He’s thicker than he thought up close, now, and he has to swallow in order to prepare himself. Before he can finally take Dream into his mouth, though, the other reaches over and entwines a hand in his bound one. The blond’s fingers completely cover his own. “Tap twice if you actually need me to stop, or if you need to say something, okay?”

“Alright.” He acknowledges, knowing now he has an out. It makes him feel slightly more at ease as Dream’s head pushes past his lips and settles on his tongue. 

Dream moans softly at the sensation, and his eyes are glued to George’s, taking in his expression as he watches his cock slowly disappear down the other’s throat. He’s doing everything he can to relax the muscles around his esophagus, squeezing hard on his thumb in an attempt to curb his gag reflex. It’s been a while since he’s done this, and he feels a bit out of practice. Almost like he can read George’s thoughts, Dream stills sporadically, letting him get used to the feeling before going deeper. 

Finally, he hits the back of George’s throat, despite not even being all the way in yet, and he has to blink back tears at the sensation. Normally, he’d be pushing on his partner’s thighs, forcing them out so he could breathe, but he doesn’t tap Dream’s hand. Not yet. There’s a part of him that enjoys this: being used. Dream pulls back until he can feel the ridges of the head of his cock bumping into his lips before pushing all the way back in suddenly, and he can’t stop the gagging noise that comes from him. His eyes squeeze shut, but he still doesn’t tap. 

“Look at you, so eager,” Dream taunts as he executes another deep thrust, threading his free hand through George’s hair and pulling hard, smiling deviously as he moans around his cock. “Oh, so you like that, me pulling on your hair. You like the pain, George?”

He can’t reply, of course he can’t, but he does his best to nod as the other forces himself down his throat, again and again and again. He tugs on his hair once more and every single ounce of the pain travels straight to his cock, stuck in a state of unbearable arousal; neglected, untouched. It almost fucking hurts. 

George has never felt like this before. There are tears streaming down his temples now, and the noises he makes as a result of Dream hitting the back of his throat are downright obscene, but the more he flexes against his binds, the more heat he feels pooling deep in his stomach. It feels like he’s flirting with something dangerously addicting, and it’s only as floaters begin to flit across his vision that he finally taps a finger on the back of Dream’s hand. 

He pulls out immediately, cock now flushed with blood, and fully hard. Like this, George can’t believe that had been almost entirely in his mouth only a moment ago. He gasps in a breath of air, trying his best not to cough as he steadies the lightness in his head. 

“Color?” Dream sounds remarkably in control despite what he’d only just been doing, and George feels himself flush at the contrast between them. 

“Green, I just—” He licks his lips, trying to reign in the saliva that had begun to escape his mouth. “I just needed a breather.”

“Oh, no, George,” He says, once again pushing forward into his unprepared mouth. “You don’t get to stop for that .” His voice is low and sinister, and the moment the last word leaves his mouth, George feels his nose collide with Dream’s pelvis. 

He’s stuck between gagging and moaning, some ungodly noise reverberating around the other’s cock as he’s used. Dream’s thrusts are faster this time, but he at least starts out a bit shallower, giving him time to adjust until he’s fully sheathing himself in his throat. Tears fall freely from his eyes, and he has to screw them shut to process what’s going on. Despite feeling so overwhelmed, he knows that if so much as a single touch ghosted along his cock right now, he would come. He’s really being used , just like he asked to be. He remembers a conversation they’d had, early in their message history. 

 

what are you looking for out of this? like what kind of feeling did you want?

 

I don’t know honestly. I guess I kind of want to be at someone else’s mercy? idk it seems really nice to let someone else have control

 

so you want to be used?

 

I wasn’t really thinking of it in those terms tho

 

what did you mean then?

 

I’m trying to come up with something but I can’t tbh

 

lots of people find pleasure in that

being used I mean

sex is give and take but sometimes it’s nice just to have someone ignore that for a sec

 

if the other person is getting off though that’s not really ignoring is it?

 

hmm yeah but that’s not quite what I meant lol 

in that case you’re getting off on that idea of being ignored

like you’re still technically taking but it’s only because the other person is doing nothing but taking themselves

 

and that’s being used?

 

yep

would you like that george? if I used you?

 

Dream is giving him everything he’d wanted, and they’d hardly even started yet. Eventually, he pulls off for a moment, giving George a chance to suck in much-needed breaths as the other simply regarded him from above. “I don’t have hands; wipe the spit off me.” He says, only realizing his mistake when one of those large, gorgeous hands is suddenly pressing against the arteries framing his windpipe. 

“You don’t get to order me around, George,” He hisses, voice dangerous and reprimanding. “I’m not doing anything you ask tonight, alright? Not unless I’m feeling especially generous, and I like the way you look with your own mess all over your face, so don’t you dare try and tell me what to do.” 

The tone he uses sends a pulse of desire so violent through him that he can feel his deprived cock twitch desperately against the tie at its base. The pressure on his throat only heightens it, and it’s not long before the world swims in gentle color. “Yes, sir.” He manages to rasp out, only left just enough room to speak. 

Eventually, the pressure eases off, and his punishment is over, but Dream still hasn’t finished with its fallout. “You know, I could leave you here for hours , George,” From his vantage point, Dream’s cock still occupies most of his vision, and he almost salivates at it, wishing it were inside of him instead of there, twitching and all too exposed. “Shove a toy deep in you and leave it until you’re screaming from being made to come over, and over again. And I’d just watch, you know. Watch as you fall into absolute pieces. That’s what happens when you’re a brat, do you understand?”

He moans at the thought, but nods in understanding. 

Happy with his response, Dream’s gaze turns devious again as he brings up a hand to trace over George’s ruined cheeks. He can only imagine how he looks right now: eyes red from tears, face blotchy and shining with his own saliva. A mess in the best of ways. “This is such a good look for you, baby,” He says, trailing a thumb over his lips, swollen from the abuse. “I’d be so happy to keep doing this to you until I’m so beyond satisfied that it hurts, but I’m not gonna do that, don’t you worry.”

George groans, and he isn’t unaware of the pleading that’s in his eyes. As Dream appraises him, lust heavy on his features, he has no idea what is to be done with him going forward. The anticipation weighs heavily in his stomach, where it swirls and peaks with every single drag of Dream’s skin on his. He’s trying to predict where he’ll move next, but as he goes from his face to his collarbones and his chest, each touch is a surprise, and it sends gooseflesh racing along every part of him. 

He leans down over George suddenly, and his breath is right next to his ear. “Do you own turtlenecks, George?”

“Yes.” He stutters out, and he can’t stop the moan that’s torn from his throat as Dream suddenly latches his teeth onto the side of his neck. It’s sharper than he’s used to, his mouth more vicious than past partners, but the pinpricks of pain send a fog into his mind that he can’t quite comprehend. 

Each bite trailed along his throat is hard enough that it properly hurts, and tears continue to prick at his eyes, but each throb also corresponds to a twitch from below. He can feel pearls of precum slide down his shaft until they inevitably sticky the bit of rope tied at the base, and his hips attempt to thrust into empty air in a desperate and unsuccessful bid for relief. Dream, despite being occupied with salivating over his skin, notices, and there’s suddenly a bruising grip on one of his hips, pinning him to the bed. 

“You know you don’t have permission to do that,” He growls into George’s shoulder, biting hard to drive his point home and sending him crying out. “This is your one warning. Do it again, and I’ll see to it that you’re bruised for weeks.” 

“Yes,” He gasps out. “I’m sorry, sir.” George tries to draw more of his focus to keeping himself pressed flush to the mattress, but he can already feel the delicate flesh above his hip bone beginning to turn purple under Dream’s hold, and he suddenly realizes just how desperately he doesn’t want him to relent. He wants to be marked until he’s unrecognizable to himself; owned, possessed. 

Dream continues to follow his silent, violent desire, mouth littering his neck, his collarbones, his chest with splotches of purple and blue that pulse with delightful pain as he leaves them behind. George is making good on his request to have his mouth left alone, and a litany of sound pours from him with each bite. He feels Dream smirk against his skin whenever he moans, and he only responds by sucking the flesh between his teeth harder. 

All of it is unbearable enough, but the lower down he creeps, the more George feels himself slip away into euphoria. Something is clouding his mind, and each prick of pain lessens as he surges through it, the marks he’s gaining on the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs turning to singingly sweet pleasure, despite the fact he knows it should bring tears to his eyes. His hips are trembling with the effort he’s putting into not thrusting into cold air, and it’s maddening in the most glorious way. 

Dream can sense his building frustration and, rather than pull back, he instead comes ever closer, and he can feel hot breath on the head of his cock. He cries out at the sensation, so desperate for not even relief, but any contact. He hasn’t been touched once since all of this began, except to have his orgasm taken away in advance, and it’s driving him insane. 

“George,” The other murmurs, voice firm despite the low volume. “You’re so hard for me, aren’t you?”

He nods, unsure if the other can even see the action. 

Dream sucks his teeth, tsking but not yet pulling back. “I need you to use your words. Tell me just how much of a wreck you are.” The words send a dark throb of desire through him but, despite that, he hesitates, not used to having to use such filthy language. The other picks up on it immediately and, while he doesn’t move his body, his eyes flick upward to meet George’s, to gauge him. “Color?”

He swallows, shaking his head. “Green, I’m just—” He catches his breath, still unbearably pinned by his gaze. “I’m just embarrassed.”

Dream’s stony exterior cracks for a moment and a laugh slips through, the breath ghosting over George’s length, still right before his face. “What, not used to feeling so ruined? Not used to being treated like my own personal canvas, George?”

“N-no.” He stutters, shivering at the dark heat lying in his words.

“I can tell you how much of a wreck you are,” Dream breathes out, fingers digging further into his hip and making him gasp. “You look absolutely filthy for me, George. You’ve got this flush all across your chest and your cheeks, and you’re just littered with marks from my teeth. They’re all over you, and you’ve taken it so well.”

His breathing shakes at the praise. “I want to be good for you. I-I want be everything you need.”

There’s a sweet bite far up on his inner thigh, so painfully close to his leaking length that he has to viciously lock the muscles in his hips to prevent them from jerking upward. “Oh, baby,” Dream says, tone turning merciful. “I can see just how much you’re shaking, being so good for me. You’re so desperate for me to touch you, aren’t you? So fucking hard, nice and wet and waiting for me to fuck you.”

George feels his embarrassment fade as arousal and need creep further into his mind. He’s growing increasingly more consumed with the feeling Dream is shooting him through with, and the intensity of it almost scares him. “I’ve been wanting you to fuck me for weeks now.” He confesses, thinking back to the times he’d imagined this night playing out in his mind, fingers deep inside of himself as he tried to reach for a spot that he knew he couldn’t. 

“Oh, George, playing with you is just so fun,” Dream accompanies the tease with a finger finally skirting its way up his shaft, and he can’t help but arch at the feeling of being touched, letting loose a sob when he pulls away. “I told you that you didn’t get to do that. You can’t do so much as move your hips without my permission. You know what I have to do now, hmm?”

He takes a shaking breath in as he nods. “You need to punish me.”

Dream pulls back, taking with him the only hope of stimulation he had. He desperately wants to whine, to demand that he be touched, but a part of him looks forward to whatever misery is about to be inflicted upon him. He’s already felt himself throb as incisors sunk into sensitive flesh, as Dream had pulled hard on his hair. Maybe this would be just the same. 

“Normally,” He starts, drawing his eyes along George’s exposed body like an animal. “I’d bruise that pretty ass of yours, but it’d be such a shame to have to undo all those knots. You just look so good in them, after all. You know what? I’ll be generous today since it’s your first time. Where do you want me to hurt you, George?” Dream steps toward him again and uses that infuriatingly light touch, dragging a calloused index finger along his skin as he names the different parts of him. “Your chest?” His finger runs along his upper pectoral, skirting the line with his collarbone. “Maybe I could choke you until you’re begging for mercy.” Dream scrapes across his carotid and he can’t help but tremble at the prospect. “Or maybe,” Down, down, down. “Maybe I turn your thighs purple, bad enough that you can’t cross your legs for days.”

George draws in a sharp breath as he pivots the pads of his finger so that his nail instead is scraping along the soft flesh of his inner thighs, just barely peeking out from the ropes that keep his legs spread. 

His reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by Dream, who smirks darkly. “Oh, you like that idea, don’t you? Is that what you want, George?”

“Yes.” He can hardly gasp it out, cock straining against its bond. He just wants Dream to touch him, and he doesn’t fucking care how anymore. 

Dream sets his face with an expression that sends fear spiking through his stomach, but it’s accompanied by a roiling anticipation that tugs on each of his nerves. He stands, looming tall over him, and he’s never felt so small, so vulnerable. A large hand traces up his bound right leg before coming to rest high on his thigh, where it grips and suddenly squeezes the skin there, causing him to moan. “You’re going to count to ten with me, George,” He states, definitive and firm. “And then, if you’re good, maybe I’ll touch you how you want, hmm?”

He nods frantically, trying his best to brace himself for the sting of Dream’s palm. 

In the end, he isn’t ready for it, and the sharp impact on delicate flesh forces a startled cry from him. Shocked, he can hardly remember to gasp out: “One.” The pain distracts him from his throbbing hard-on for a moment, his nerves alight with the new sensation. 

Dream brings his hand down again on the same spot, a solid amount of force behind it, and it doesn’t hurt any more than the last one, stinging in a way that George could almost call sweet. A love bite, but only much more severe. “Two.”

The next two blows come in rapid succession, and he can hardly stammer out three before he’s bowled over into four. He realizes that as the slaps build, so, too, does the ache. Tears spring into his eyes and trail down his cheeks before they turn and nestle into the hair just beyond his temples. It’s completely and totally disorienting; he’s never felt anything like it before, and he feels like wires are getting crossed as a strange, low tide of humming arousal takes up residence in his stomach. Muscles twitch deep inside of him, and his cock jerks against empty air. In normal circumstances, he’d feel himself close to coming, but the tight band wrapped around him only further reminds him that he can’t. 

He feels like he’s sliding into fog, heart rate ticking up as adrenaline floods through his blood until he’s hopped up on it. The next time Dream’s hand makes contact with his thigh, it’s sparks of pain again, but they somehow sing in his mind, and he feels like a switch has been flipped. “Six.” He cries out, time slowing as he waits for the next hit. 

“You’re taking your punishment so well, baby.” Dream praises him, and he keens at the words, but he’s cruelly reminded it’s not over with the seventh blow. 

George responds with the associated number, although he struggles to get it past his lips. He’s finding it harder to articulate, shot through with some unholy combination of sharp pain and sharper pleasure. The eighth and ninth hits come, and he lets out a sob as he counts, all the while feeling hot precum stream down his cock. His head is tipped back, eyes shut and back arching, while he grasps onto the ties around his wrists with deathly strength: something, anything to help him hold on to this world. 

The tenth time Dream’s hand makes bruising contact with the wildly over-sensitive skin of his right thigh, it’s harder than those that came before it, and George positively shrieks out the final number, unable to stop himself from writhing, not sure if he wants to lean into or shrink away from the touch. It’s overwhelming in every possible way. 

His long fingers don’t move away this time, instead turning to gently stroke the undoubtedly scarlet skin underhand. It’s remarkably tender, a vivid contrast with what the same place had just been put through, and Dream is almost sweet when he says: “Look at you, such a beautiful mess for me. Have you learned your lesson, George?”

He nods frantically, not trusting himself to speak, for fear of more sobs breaking free from his throat. 

“I need words, you know that. I need to make sure you understand , really understand.” His voice is so commanding, so authoritative, so certain, and he’s never been reduced to so little by simple breath through vocal cords before. 

George pushes past his fear and he was right to think he might whimper when he opened his mouth, because he does, before he bleeds into pleading. “I’ll behave, I promise, I promise, I—” He’s struggling with coherency, now, body alight with confusing signals tugging him between fight-or-flight and unbelievable arousal. He can feel the cortisol running ravage through his veins, but it somehow makes him pulse with desperate need at the same time. 

“Shh, shh,” Dream soothes, hand moving up, skirting past his length and his torso until he can gently cup his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. You know what happens when you misbehave, and now you’re gonna be so good for me. I’ll use you until I’m satisfied, and then I’ll make you fucking scream under me, ‘til you can’t tell up from down.” Dream’s hand creeps up further, burying itself in the longer hairs on the top of George’s head and just barely tugging. It’s enough to cause a soft moan to erupt from his mouth, but not enough to really hurt. 

He’s trying to preserve his inner dignity, but the longer the other lingers, the more desperately he’s aware of his neglected cock, of the ache in him that needs to be filled. “Please, I need you, Dream. Please, use me, I’m—” He gulps a frantic breath of air, struggling to curb his body’s reactions. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t stand it. I want you to ruin me. You’re right: I’m a wreck for you, sir.”

The taller’s gaze bores into his chest, and he chuckles, low and fond. “Finally being honest with yourself, such a good boy. I’ll ruin you, just like you want, but remember, you can’t come.”

George wants to sob at the notion, but he’s growing so desperate for touch, some insatiable hunger rising up within him that he’s never felt before, and so he babbles out an agreement, most of it turning to nonsense. 

Dream’s hand finally leaves him, and he tries to follow it, but is pressed back into the mattress with a very light slap to his cheek: a warning. He understands and finally opens his eyes again, trying to ground himself by puzzling out the slight dips in texture in the ceiling. The drying tears and saliva streaked across his cheeks bring a modicum of coolness to his heated face, and he’s almost thankful for it as he tries to gather himself. He can sense Dream moving around beyond him, opening several drawers he can’t see, before he finally returns to the bed. George feels his weight settle on it, and he’s conscious of how close he is to him, kneeling right in between his spread, bound legs. 

“George, look at me,” He plies, voice soft again, and he sits, silent, until George finally tears his gaze away from the ceiling and looks at his lust-filled eyes, at the cock bobbing hard against his stomach. How he still sounds so in control is beyond him. “Color?” 

It takes him a moment to realize what he’s asking about, when he finally sees the slick substance coating two of Dream’s fingers, being warmed by friction as he awaits an answer. “Green, oh god, please—” 

He’s cut off by a long middle finger suddenly trailing over that sensitive area between his cock and his ass, and it stops all thought. He’s so fucking close to getting what he wants but Dream just won’t give it to him. It’s torturous. 

The other continues his unbearable path down until he’s just pressing against George, not breaching, only teasing with painfully slow circles. “Remember your little rule, George? I’d hate to have to teach you another lesson.”

The thought of having to keep absolutely still while those long fingers of his stretched him open makes him want to cry. He has a feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, he’d inevitably try to drive himself into the touch. “I- I can’t. Please, sir, hold me down. Want you to bruise me like before.”

Dream smiles darkly, like a predator looking at prey. “What, you want my handprint in black and blue, George? Want to see the evidence of me even after you leave here?”

“Yes, oh, yes, please,” George whines. “I want to look in the mirror tomorrow and see everything you did to me.” The idea drives him insane. He didn’t realize how much he loved to be marked.

“Alright,” He finally hums. “I’ll be generous and pin you down, just like you want. But you still need to be good, do you understand?”

He nods again, and sighs out a loud and desperate moan when a finger finally slips into him in tandem with a heavy transfer of weight to his right hip bone. George feels his muscles clench around the intrusion, but is relieved at finally having something inside of him. Dream’s fingers are so much longer than his own, and he’s already scraping deep.

“We don’t want pain during this part,” Dream clarifies, pumping his finger in and out of him as casually as if he were stirring milk into his morning coffee. “So, let me know if this hurts.”

He blinks at the sentences, trying to process them. “I- I thought I was coming here so you could—” George swallows around the words. “So you could hurt me.”

Dream hums coolly, clearly unbothered by his confusion. “You came here so I could make you feel pain in a safe setting. I’m not going to actually hurt you, George. I told you I don’t do blood.” He curls the finger inside of him, going about his work without a stutter. 

“Ah!” He gasps, unable to stop it from leaking from him as he feels that new arousal start to build: the one he could only get from the inside. “O-okay. I’ll tell you if it hurts.”

“Good boy,” Dream’s praises fall like honey on his ears, and he wants to whimper at them. “Besides, if we do this properly now,” He leans down suddenly, hot breath curling against his neck like a viper. “Then I can really make you hurt later on.”

George does finally sob at that, noise only pitching up and mewling on as a second finger is slipped inside of him. The stretch is that familiar, pleasant burn that he’s more than used to at this point. Dream’s fingers are undoubtedly quite a bit longer than his slender ones, and he can feel him purposefully spreading them against his walls, avoiding that one spot he’s dying to have him touch. It’s driving him insane, and it’s only been a handful of seconds. 

He lets the moans fall from his mouth freely, any hints of embarrassment absolutely gone. George struggles against the hand pinning him to the mattress in vain, knowing that he’s not going anywhere; it feels like a vice around him. His frantic desire to feel more only grows as Dream begins to properly scissor him open, the wide spread of his fingers straining against his tight rim before a third finger joins them and he wants to scream. 

His cock flexes hard, and he feels like he’s on the verge of coming, only just now being properly touched, but he’s forced onto a plateau by the tie at his base. It wrenches a sob from his mouth, and he knows that it will ultimately get him nowhere. Dream doesn’t even react to his involuntary pleas, and he can feel the intense gaze on him as he continues to stretch George so he can use him. He’s reduced to nothing but his body beneath those golden eyes, nothing but a means to an end, and the recognition sends something inside of him sparking. He can’t forget the gentleness of Dream’s hands as he’d tied him up, or the soft press of his lips on his wrist, but he feels like he’s only hunger now. It’s something deeper than fucking, like some neuron in the furthest corner of his brain had finally been switched on. 

The hand on his hip presses hard, and it throbs in tandem with the crimson on his thigh and the veins in his cock: the strangest and most wonderful mélange of sensation. “Still so tight,” Dream finally comments, nonchalant. “You have to open up for me, or I’ll just use your mouth, and neither of us want that.”

“I’m—” His response is interrupted by a yelp as Dream finally, finally brushes against his prostate, only to withdraw immediately, leaving him on the verge of writhing. “I can’t help it.”

He laughs darkly, and it sends electricity racing up George’s spine. “I know you can’t, baby, but I need you to try .”

George does his best to take deeper breaths, rather than gasping out his pleasure, and relax every bit of him that he can. Dream grows more aggressive with the thrusts of his fingers, reaching deeper into him and curling the tips to scrape along his walls. It sends him spasming and crying out.

“Good boy,” He comments, and George feels the thumb on his hip gingerly brush across the bitten flesh there in praise. “Keep doing that for me. Need to make sure you’re soft and ready.”

He continues this for what seems like hours, but is really probably no more than five minutes. Five torturous, rapturous minutes. Dream’s fingers are so much longer than his own, and they fill him in ways he didn’t think simple digits could. He’s clearly experienced when it comes to his fingers, and he starts reading George like an open book. Every spasm of his hips, every twitch of his pulsating cock, he responds to it with precision. He doesn’t think he’s ever been worked open like this, and he’s torn between never wanting it to end and wanting to be finally, finally, railed into the mattress. 

George lets out a high, desperate whine as he nears the end of some metaphorical rope, desperately strung out and aching in the worst of ways. “Please,” He begs, abandoning any pretense of dignity completely. “Please, I need you to fuck me, use me. Want you inside of me, please, please—” He’s back to babbling, dying entreaties loosing from his tongue as he feels frustrated tears building again. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been tied down to this mattress, but he does know he’s never felt such intense, cloying need. George only hopes that he’ll be allowed to come over again after this.

“Do you, now?” Dream replies, teasing tone warming his voice until it burns him, and his fingers don’t stop. “Look at you, so desperate for my cock, so ready for me to use you.”

George sobs out in agreement, a lewd moan slipping into the air between them. 

The other clicks his tongue, humming in dissatisfaction. “You know I need you to use your words, George.”

He’s overwhelmed by stinging pleasure and, while he’s found coherency difficult for some time now, he finally realizes that words have slipped beyond him. He does his best to meet Dream’s dark gaze with his own, and convey what he can through gasps and a shaking of his head. A part of it scares him, completely unfamiliar with the feelings washing over him, but he can’t help but relish it.

His eyes widen a fraction before settling, and an easy, understanding grin slides across his face. The hand on his hip moves upward to stroke his right cheek, and George melts into the gentle touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, baby, you’re so good for me. This makes things a little more complicated, but we’ll figure it out. Do you want to stop?” He asks, voice soft and silken. 

George fervently shakes his head, a whine bubbling up from his throat, as he pushes his face further into the other’s bruisingly tender touch.

“Here.” Dream withdraws from him, leaving his body singing in desperation, and goes to rifle through a drawer and slip off the sinfully tight pants he’d been wearing before returning to his side. He sits next to him on the bed, tenderly taking one of George’s bound hands within his own and pressing a cool metal disc into his palm. “If something gets to be too much, and you can’t tell me, drop this, okay? I’ll immediately stop the moment you do.”

George nods, curling his fingers around the surface of what feels like a coin: one of the larger ones, like a half-dollar. It’s grounding against his searing skin, and he’s thankful for it. He’s also thankful when Dream’s hands return to him, grazing along the sides of his body and setting his nerves alight in their wake. He climbs back on top of George, gently ghosting over bruised hips before further spreading his bound thighs. A finger trails low until it slips inside of him again, just a tease, and he groans in frustration, hoping that Dream will finally relent. He’s open enough: he needs to be satisfied or, fuck, just touched, or he’ll lose his mind.

“You sound so pretty with just my fingers,” He comments, voice heavy with lust and a drop of awe. “I bet you’ll sound even prettier on my cock. You want that, don’t you?”

He desperately nods, some noise he should be ashamed of spilling from his split mouth. A part of him knows that the torture will only be so much worse with Dream inside of him, with constant stimulation where it would undoubtedly make him come if his orgasm wasn’t under the other’s control. Despite that, he feels fucking insatiable. 

Dream is reaching for lube again, slicking himself up, and George’s heart hammers out of his chest in anticipation. As he wraps wet fingers around his cock, he stares down at George, appraising him like he’s a rare manuscript on an auction block, eyes flaring with desire and arousal, and the look sends a spike of something through him. 

The moment he’s been waiting far too long for happens so quickly that the breath is knocked out of him, no sound leaving his mouth as he tosses his head back in a silent scream. With a single movement, Dream seats himself entirely inside of him, where he stops, grinding his hips into George’s thighs as he adjusts. It’s completely overwhelming, all too fast and all too much. His cock is just as impressive as he thought it would be, splitting him open and going deep enough to immediately send electric shocks racing up his spine as it brushes against his prostate. After so long being empty, it’s almost too much being so fucking full. 

Dream hisses above him, the first crack in his composure the entire night, and digs sharp fingers into his waist, where he grips him like a plaything. “You’re so fucking tight for me, George. I’m not the first man you’ve been with, am I?”

Mind still stuttering, he manages to shake his head as he tries to wriggle his way into more stimulation. The ties binding him are all too steadfast, though, and he can’t even lift his hips to grind against him. 

“Sure feels like it,” Dream says, a hand tracing up his chest before sharply pinching his left nipple. He smirks at the high yelp of surprise he receives in return. “A shame, really. I would’ve loved to have ruined you for anyone else; have you shaped just for my dick so that no one else’s would ever do.” He punctuates the sentence with a quick withdrawal of his hips before he snaps them forward again. 

George cries out, the friction inside of him finally doing something to even touch the arousal he’s been feeling ever since he laid down on this bed. Dream’s force is tightly controlled but achingly strong, hitting him with just enough stinging pleasure that he has trouble even comprehending what he’s feeling. Normally, his partner would be stock still inside of him this early on, tongue in his mouth as he adjusted; instead, Dream is cruelly rolling his hips into him, seeking his own pleasure and leaving George behind. The extra time he’d worked him open beforehand, though, is proving to be worth every agonizing moment of it. He feels the typical burning stretch, but it’s not uncomfortable in any meaningful way, and he supposes the adjustment period isn’t needed. 

So, he lets Dream use him.

Filth continues falling from his mouth, praising George every time the man underneath him moans. Every thrust is rough, driving into him with force that makes each drag of Dream’s cock against his walls so pronounced that he can’t help but cry out. He’s never felt like he was truly getting fucked before, not like this, but it’s the most primal sense of the word. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and somehow so much more. A part of him is aware of the ache that will inevitably spread over his body once he comes down from this hormone-induced high, but he can’t feel any of it now, every square centimeter of his skin singing out in pleasure. 

The ropes dig into the creases of his body, not chafing, but doing something just short of it, and he almost can’t stand how badly he wants to wrap his legs around Dream’s waist, dig his nails into his back in a desperate attempt to stay grounded to this world. But he can’t. He’s completely and totally restrained and being deprived of touch while the other gets to handle him without an ounce of response. It makes him feel some sort of way. 

Dream angles his hips just slightly, and suddenly George is seeing stars. He sobs out a moan, tears sliding from his eyes again at the overwhelming feeling. The other knows, because he’s reading George like a fucking open book, and he comes to a grinding halt, fully bottomed out inside of him, the rigid head of his cock nestled directly against his prostate. He stills completely and totally, just slightly huffing from exertion, and pulls George’s hips further into his. A high-pitched whine escapes from his lungs as Dream stays motionless, and his body reacts to the stimulation. 

“Oh, I can just feel how you’re clenching around me, George,” He says, harsh grip momentarily leaving his hips to trail up his chest and pinch his nipples in tandem. “You’re so close to coming, aren’t you?”

He groans out in agreement, feeling his insides pulse from the pressure. He twitches his pelvis in an attempt to get more friction on that one sweet spot inside of him, to make it so that the head of Dream’s cock isn’t just pressed unmoving against him, but he’s frozen by a hand suddenly squeezing his throat. 

Dream sucks his teeth in disappointment, fingers beginning to apply pressure to his windpipe. “We’ve talked about this, baby,” There’s genuine displeasure on his tongue, and he wilts at it. He just wants to be good. “You just have to wait until I’m satisfied. Then you can desperately grind against me all you want like the wreck you are.”

George tries his best to communicate with pleading eyes, with lewd noises falling from his lips, so desperate to feel anything , but the other simply squeezes harder on his throat, fuzzing his vision. Unable to breathe, all of the blood in his body suddenly feels so much closer to the surface of his skin, and he only grows somehow harder. His length jerks around nothing in a vain attempt at getting stimulation, but it only causes his prostate to pulse against Dream. He wants to fucking scream . 

“Maybe this is how I’ll make you come later on,” Dream comments, voice almost disinterested, as he finally eases up on his throat. “Just like this: wait for your own body to push and pull itself to completion. Would that be satisfying for you, hmm?”

He frantically shakes his head as he gasps in oxygen again, knowing coming like that would leave him high and dry, and still hard. He wouldn’t get any relief at all. He could stand having it done once, but if that was all he was going to be given, all of this frustration would have been for nothing. 

The blond hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t betray his decision, instead keeping quiet as he traces over the bruises on George’s throat dangerously, only a press away from cutting off his air again. His fingertips continue to trail over the signs of glorious abuse littering his skin, going further and further down until they’re circling around his cock, dipping down onto the flesh of his mismatched thighs: one covered in small bite marks, the other still glowing scarlet. 

“You’re so hard, I bet it hurts,” He observes, eyeing George’s length, dyed a deep, angry red from the tight band around his base, and the simple fact he’d been straining for so long. “I’m sure glad that’s not me.” He punctuates the sentence by moving again with a thrust so fast and hard that he feels himself slide up the sheets with the force. 

Sound pours from him as Dream assumes a relentless pace. He’s trying his best to not thrash beneath him, and quaking breaks out all over him as his muscles lock in place. George is teetering on a boundary, so close to overstimulation despite not even having come yet, and he’s growing truly desperate, in the most honest sense of the word. The pleasure is so unbearably good that it’s almost actually unbearable. His system is overloaded with strange signals and tears and pain and a need for moremoremore—

The first signs of relief that he gets come in the form of Dream finally letting honest moans slip from his own mouth. Jesus, it’s a wonderful sound: the warm timbre of his voice is graveled with lust and exertion and George wants to do nothing but listen to a chorus of it. He can tell his control is just beginning to fray from the way his eyes slip shut as he grabs the Brit by his narrow waist, relishing the feeling of heated skin there. 

Just as he feels like he might have lasted long enough, to be allowed to finally have his own pleasure, Dream’s thrusts grow impossibly deeper and it’s just too much and he’s clenching around him and he’s—

George really does sob this time, salt streaking down his face and wet hiccups filling the air between them as he’s cruelly held back. He’s so hard that he’s in pain, and he can feel his orgasm right fucking there , stopped dead by the simple loop of tight rope. Having it wrenched away from him like that is excruciating, and he’s never felt such strong sensations from below the belt. He can’t come, but his cock is weeping so much that he might as well have. A small pool of clear liquid has amassed in the dip of his navel, and it feels absolutely filthy in the best of ways. 

His partner notices the change in his demeanor, from desperate pleasure to legitimate distress, and slows, stopping carving bruises onto his stomach in order to stroke his face again. “Baby, do you want to stop?” Dream asks, voice so tender that he can’t but feel like he’s being spoken to by a real lover, and not just someone to fuck. His eyes flick to George’s right hand, still clenched tight around the coin. 

He opens his teary eyes to look up at him, and tries his best to summon composure. He stammers out an approximation of “no” that’s more just a pitched n than a word, and then manages to force: “Wanna come.”

“You will,” He reassures, letting George lean into his touch for a moment longer before withdrawing. “You just can’t until I do, okay? You make me feel so good, Georgie, so fucking hot and tight around my dick. I’m getting close, baby, all because you’ve been so good while I use you.”

His tears continue to fall, but the praise sends a pulse of reassurance through him as he tries to fight his frustration with everything in him. He can’t even think about how his own orgasm will feel when it finally comes; everything leading up to it has been disgustingly intense, and he knows it can’t go down for the finale. 

Dream moans out a broken god and gasps as his thrusts begin to lose composure and grow just slightly erratic. The sound of his hips hitting George’s thighs fills the room, along with the obscene noises of friction and lube, and it only serves to accompany the stream of moans erupting from George as he tries to maintain his grip on the world. 

He’s still reeling from being wrenched away from the edge of a cliff, but the spiral of screaming sensation has faded somewhat, mellowing out to something only just south of it as he tries to drown in his own mélange of pleasure and pain.

“Fuck,” Slips from Dream, pitching up at the close. He’s nearing the end of his rope. “Gonna come soon, baby. Want it inside of you? Want me to fill you up with my hot cum?”

George knows he’s not supposed to, but he arches as he moans out agreement and nods frantically, trying to meet his thrusts halfway. This time, he doesn’t receive punishment, the other clearly too far gone to remember his rule. Those large hands slip under his ass to lift him just slightly, causing the ropes to dig into his thighs, and the change in angle is enough to send him screaming in desire. He feels himself clench hard around Dream’s cock in response just as the other drives hard into him, hips flush with own, and he finally crumbles beautifully. 

Dream moans out his name when he comes, greedy fingers digging into him enough to bruise as he feels hot streaks spill deep inside of him. Still hard and throbbing, the sensation is enough to make his own head tip back and let out broken moans while the other reaches satisfaction. He continues thrusting, still not drawing out much, as he fucks himself through his orgasm, gradually slowing until he comes to a stop, sheathed in George.

He’s breathing heavily and just covered in a light sheen of sweat, muscled chest rising and falling in tandem with the noise. Dirty blond hair drips into his eyes as it slips from whatever makeshift style it’d been pushed into before George arrived, and he looks so beautiful that he feels like he’s being fucked by a Greek god instead of a man. The soft pants and sighs that come from him only make George respond with his own, still trying to clench around the length inside of him in a desperate bid for relief. 

Dream finally looks at him, face flushed beneath his freckles, and his voice is just slightly scratched from his ecstasy when he speaks again. “Made me come so hard,” The praise only makes him desperately writhe against him, not able to get any meaningful stimulation. “Now I’m going to make you scream. You deserve it after being so good for me.” 

There’s a thumb stroking his chin when Dream finally pulls out, and he moans at the sensation of cum leaking out in his wake. He feels empty all of a sudden, fluttering around nothing, and he whines out in frustration, feeling tears building again. 

“Don’t you worry,” Dream reassures, coming to loom over him before sinking down until his incisors ghost along George’s neck again, as his hand moves downward in tandem. “I’ll take good care of you, baby. You’ve been so patient, giving me everything I needed first.”

George inhales shakily as he feels a hand dragging over his thigh, dipping down until fingers slip back inside of him. He can’t tell if it’s three or four, but they’re rapidly going deep, and his back is leaving the mattress in response. He feels Dream exploring inside of him, clearly searching for his sweet spot.

There’s a light bite above his collarbone and a hand pulling his hair. “Even after having me inside you, you’re still so tight, and now I have to fuck my own cum back into you with my fingers. Have you always been this lewd?”

He can only offer a low moan in response, which rapidly pitches up and spirals out of his vocal cords’ control when those fingers curl upward and rub hard into his prostate. 

“There it is,” Dream remarks, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “You ever come without having your cock touched, George?”

The thought sends a shot of blood rushing through him, and he can’t tell whether he’s desperate for it or wants to sob at not being touched. He shakes his head, just barely slotting open his eyes to look down at the man hovering over his marked chest. 

He smirks and lets a low laugh slip from him. The expression on his face stops George’s heart in his chest out of arousal. “Well then, aren’t you in for a treat. I’m gonna do this until you can’t tell me which direction is left and which is right. You’ll be seeing stars, Georgie.” 

To further emphasize his point, he’s provided with another sharp wave of pointed pleasure as Dream continues to curl the tips of his fingers inside of him, scraping against his walls in the most sinful of ways. George is never able to reach so far like this, and it makes him swim in a sensation he isn’t used to. It’s wickedly sweet and, after such a long buildup, each touch feels much more intense than it ought to. 

Dream lets him rut his hips against the fingers thrusting into him, no longer holding him down or punishing him for the movement, and he feels like relief is finally within his grasp. He’s never acted so desperate, so much like a slut, and the thought of what this man has made him feel in the span of a night stuns him. Each movement causes the ropes tying him down to slide across his skin, the rougher edges of the cotton rubbing him strawberry red. It’s a perfect cocktail of pleasure and a light pain that only heightens it. 

Then, the taller leans down further, breath hot against his ear, and whispers: “I’m going to finally undo this tie around you, but I still want you to hold out as long as you can, okay? Don’t come until I say.” 

Still thrusting against his fingers, George hums to signal he at least heard him, and looks forward to the release of pressure with bated breath. 

Unfortunately, Dream is painfully vigilant when he goes to free his length, taking care to only touch the knot and avoid skimming across any of the sensitive flesh. It doesn’t provide any sensation, but as the rope slides from him, he feels excess blood rush into his cock, twitching hard in response. 

“Oh!” He moans out, craning the long column of his throat just in time for Dream to suck yet another dark mark into it. He’s glad that it’s winter, or else he would have to go and buy stage makeup to cover up all the damage the other had done to his neck.

“There we go, baby. That must feel so much better, after waiting all this time,” Dream’s free hand is now trailing along his wrecked right thigh, gently stroking the still-throbbing skin there. “Just look at how much you’re leaking already. Such a good boy for me.” The praise feels like gold, warm and reminding him of rays of sunlight. He doesn’t want him to stop and, happily for him, Dream doesn’t. 

“Even when I had to punish you, you took it so well,” The hand closes entirely over the spread of his bruised thigh. “And you learned your lesson. I was so happy when you begged me to hold you down later on: I know just how good you wanted to be, and it shows, George. You’ve been so obedient for me, just like I needed, and you felt so good when I was fucking you.”

He gasps out at the approval and the fingers still relentlessly working inside of him, no longer needing to stretch like before, but instead moving with pinpoint accuracy to make him fall apart. George feels more precum bead from his tip and slide down until it can collect on his stomach. He’s so close it hurts. 

“And, god, you look so pretty all tied up like this. I’ve seen a lot of people in ropes, but these look so fucking good on you, like you were meant to be bound. I want to do even more things to you, George: so many knots that it’s dizzying, that you’re wearing them all over your body. You’d like that, I just know.”

He clenches around Dream, who has to twist his hand to readjust his own position, so his work doesn’t stutter. He wants his cock to be touched so badly, but the constant stimulation on his prostate is filling him with a strange, buzzing arousal that he hasn’t felt before. Usually, he’d wrap his own hand around himself, or his partner would, and stroke him until he came, but this sensation is much more delicate, temperamental. It’s building exponentially, and it’s starting to make him breathless. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Dream asks, who takes the long moan he gasps out as response enough. “Don’t come yet.”

His voice is so authoritative that it sends a shiver down his back. How can he not listen to him when he’s ordered like that?

Dream smiles down at him like a predator. “Good boy. It’ll feel better, trust me. You’ve done such a good job trusting me this whole time; just do it for a little bit longer.”

He nods, trying to calm his ragged breathing as he’s dragged, kicking and screaming, toward his peak. It’s a monument of self-control that he hasn’t come yet, but he’s never felt so much cloying need. 

He keeps George teetering for god knows how long, consistently slowing and reigning him back in anytime he gets too close. It’s a cruel bit of teasing, but he was right in what he’d originally said: he could hardly tell up from down at this point. He’s never been lavished with such intense pleasure before, especially not for so long. This might have just been a fuck, nothing deeper, but dear god, he wants to feel like this every night. 

The next time his cries begin to pitch upward again, and he presses his hips down onto Dream’s fingers, the taller doesn’t relent. He thrusts in deeper, and the hand on his aching thigh spreads further until it covers all of the bound limb. George mewls, trying to warn him that he’s close, and he simply meets his eyes, still dark and shot through with desire despite the fact it had been some time since his hard-on had faded. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come, George?”

A few straggling tears leak down his cheeks and he nods frantically, moaning on the fingers impaling him. He feels that telltale heat pooling deep in his stomach and his back arches off the bed as his mouth opens in a silent yes!

“That’s it, baby. Come for me.” Dream gives him permission and, just as George’s chest shudders one last time before he finally does see the edge, the hand poised over his bruised thigh squeezes. Hard. 

The pain is explosive, and it hits him the exact moment his cock pulses violently, painting him with white all the way up to his collarbones. It’s an unholy mixture, and he can do nothing but scream as it all comes together into euphoria. He can’t feel the bed beneath him anymore, and everything in his ears fades to white noise, his mind completely short-circuiting on the intensity of the pleasure. He can’t tell how long it lasts, but Dream releases the pressure from his thigh fairly immediately and coaxes him through it, fingers not slowing the entire time as he writhes beneath him. George’s entire body trembles and pleas and wordless gratitude pour from his mouth. He’s never come so hard in his life.

Eventually, the fingers on his prostate start to hurt, and he whimpers from the overstimulation, which serves as Dream’s cue to withdraw. He feels himself clench around empty air as he returns from the high, oxytocin trampling through his brain and immersing him in a new fog. He’s aware of the other moving, and he’s hardly present enough to process that it’s in order to untie him, patient fingers carefully undoing each knot and winding up the rope as it comes off of his limbs. George lies limp as he does, fucked out and entirely exhausted yet somehow keyed up, like he’s had a pot of coffee. He still clutches the coin in his hand. 

He registers that Dream leaves his peripheral for a brief moment, presumably to put away the rope, and it’s then that the crash hits him. 

George realizes he’s alone on this bed, and suddenly he’s entirely overwhelmed. It sends a well of unwanted emotions flaring up within him, and it’s hardly a moment before he takes in a gasp and feels tears well up again. They’re not from pleasure this time. 

The blond is immediately at his side, and there are large hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs absorbing the new drops of salt. “Shh, shh,” Dream soothes, leaning down and gathering him in his arms. “It’s alright, baby, I’ve got you.”

George finds awareness within his grasp again, and he moves his arms to finally embrace Dream for the first time since he’d walked into the flat, the coin slipping from his grasp at last. He clutches onto him desperately, buries his head in his neck, and lets himself cry. The suspension he’d been in is broken, and he can’t understand why he’s sobbing into a stranger’s salted skin, but he feels like he has to. 

Through tears and furious embarrassment, he hiccups against the tan shoulder beneath him, “What is this?” His voice is scratchy from his moans and screams, and it’s immediately cut off by another sob welling up inside of him. 

Dream’s fingers card through his short hair, the other arm drawing soothing circles on his back. “I’ll explain when you’ve come down, but it happens sometimes. It’s nothing bad: just let yourself go through it.”

“Okay.” He chokes out, and he knows he’s trembling. He hates feeling so vulnerable, but if it’s the fallout of that ? Maybe he could learn to be vulnerable. 

The taller man holds him in a way that is somehow both ginger and tight, and he feels entirely secure in his arms. Dream smells like fresh air and citrus and sex, and his blond hair is soft at his nape, where George’s fingers clutch at it. It’s just enough to make him abandon himself to whatever the fuck this is and ride through it. The entire time, the other never ceases the gentle motions on his back, and murmurs sweet reassurances into George’s ear. 

Eventually, the worst of it dies down, and he finally feels his tears drying. It leaves him exhausted, like he could fall asleep standing up, but ultimately more like himself. The afterglow of a good fuck still hangs from his shoulders, but he’s lucid now. With the realization, he carefully pulls back slightly from Dream, not yet leaving his hold in an attempt to relish his touch, and he finally confidently finds words again.

“What was that? I couldn’t stop it. I just—” He takes a shaking breath in, confused and a bit scared of it, and Dream interrupts him before he can get too far. 

“It’s called subspace. Sometimes, when you’re going through something intense like a really good scene,” He starts, moving one of his hands to wipe the streaks of tears from his cheek with a calloused thumb. “It triggers your body’s fight-or-flight alongside the normal chemicals that get released during sex. They end up combining and it can be… well, there’s not really a better way to put it other than ‘a lot.’ You feel euphoric, but you aren’t exactly coherent; that’s why you couldn’t talk much toward the end there. You tend to crash afterwards.” To finish the sentence, he switches cheeks and addresses the other half of George’s face. His touches are gentle and feather-light, and it almost makes him ache. It’s such a contrast to the rough, domineering touch he’d only just been using. 

He processes it phrase by phrase. “Is it- is this a common thing?”

Dream’s lip pulls in one corner as he considers it. “Not common, but not necessarily rare either. A lot of conditions have to line up and, even when they do, it’s not guaranteed to happen. You have to really trust your partner. Or just have stupidly good chemistry.” He shoots him a smirk and a wink. George can’t help but laugh at it. “Seriously though, I’m happy you had that much faith that I’d take care of you. There are usually so many issues first round.”

“Really?” He asks, legitimately curious. It had felt natural, falling into this pit with Dream, and it would have been harder for him to not trust the other man as he embarked into this strange unknown. 

“God, yeah,” He wheezes out a warm laugh that’s infectious. “I’ll pull someone’s hair too hard, or accidentally get my cock bitten, or we’ll miss signals, and someone’ll snap at me a little too honestly. It rarely goes off without a couple dozen hitches.”

George leans back into him, wanting to feel his gentle touch again, and the other is happy to reciprocate. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Dream starts, resting his chin atop George’s heated scalp. “We should probably get cleaned up, but beyond that, it’s your choice. I’m here just for you, darling: that’s my responsibility.” The term of endearment sends up a beacon of warmth inside of him. “Do you want to shower, or are your legs a bit too shaky?”

George’s eyes drift down to his legs, thighs covered with bite marks just beginning to fully bloom and pink indentations from the sweet dig of rope. He can feel the light tremor in his muscles, and he can honestly say that, combined with the ache beginning to spread low in his back, he’s not confident in his ability to stand all that firmly. “I, uh, am not sure standing on wet porcelain is the best idea for me right now.” He caps it off with a light giggle, awkward and a bit exposed. 

Dream hums against him, and he feels it rumble deep in his chest before the other withdraws. “I can clean you up, then.” He supplies, smile easy and warm. 

“Why?” He whines at the loss of contact, chasing his touch. “Can’t we just lay here?”

There’s a pointed gaze levied at him, and a finger pokes at his chest. “George, sweat aside, you have salt speckling those pretty cheeks of yours, your own cum up to your neck, and mine still leaking out of you onto the bedspread. I’m cleaning you up, unless you want to wake up sticky.”

His cheeks flare red at the coarseness of his language, and only grow more so as that finger swipes up a drop of what he’d spilled on his cooling skin and pushes it past his lips. It’s salty on his tongue, and he sputters in response, shoving Dream away as he laughs at him, falling back into the sheets. “You’re such an idiot.” He spits, although there’s no real venom in his voice. 

“Alright, alright, you just stay here, doll,” The taller draws himself up to full height, stretching his muscled arms over his head in a way that makes George’s mouth dry. “I’ll come back and clean you up. Just try and relax in the meantime. You’re gonna be really tired pretty soon, but try to stay awake for just a bit more for me.” Dream trails a hand through his hair briefly, and he can’t help but sigh into it. He’s never realized how tactile he actually was. 

George watches him go before he himself falls back into the mattress again. He’s slowly becoming more aware of the dull throbbing pain spreading across his skin, emanating most strongly from his ruined right thigh. Dream had been right: he probably wouldn’t be able to cross his legs comfortably for a while. The bites are harshest up by his neck and still ache, but the rest are minor enough that, despite the fact he’ll be littered with marks, their impact is fading. He tries to gather himself, body still shot through with endorphins and god knows what else, but the weeping has helped. He’d gone through it, just like he’d been told, and he undoubtedly felt better. 

He recalls the strange cloying feeling inside of him when he realized words had gone beyond him, and the memory is a hazy swirl. He’s never felt anything like it before, and it piques his interest. It was a nerve-wracking state, but it was one that he wanted to experience again. 

In the end, he’s left alone for what probably amounts to a few minutes, before he hears Dream’s soft footfalls re-enter the room. He sits up on his elbows to meet him, and is confronted with a man (now wearing a soft pair of dark gray joggers) holding a glass of water, a bottle of pills, and a few other things bundled together that he can’t make sense of.

Dream sits next to him on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight, and sorts out the things he’s brought with him. “Here, let me take care of you.” He shoots him another smile, just only gently curving up the corners of his mouth. 

There’s a careful hand coming to rest under his chin, just slightly tilting it up as a damp washcloth meets his messy cheeks. He sighs at the sensation of soft cloth dragging over his heated skin, wiping every bit of dry spit and tears away, and lets his eyes fall shut. 

“There, just relax, baby.” Dream’s voice is so soft, just for him, and he relishes it as he’s worked on in a completely different way compared to earlier. 

He slowly makes his way down George’s body, taking away cooling sweat and the quite frankly remarkable amount of cum he’d spilled on himself with careful hands. In his wake, his skin feels clean and cool against the air of the flat, sending a haze of gentle contentedness washing over him. Dream’s handling him like a relic: reverent and thorough, and he feels unbelievably safe in his care. 

Eventually, he makes his way down to his cock, and a light brush against the head with the towel makes him squirm away from the touch. “Fuck, I’m sore.” George hisses out, and Dream moves away in response, skirting around to dip lower. 

“Sorry,” He mutters, sincere. “Would you mind lifting your legs a bit?” 

He’s embarrassed out of his mind, hiding his face behind an arm, but he does as he’s asked so that Dream can clean him up, going so far as to slip a finger back inside of him to finish. He’s overly sensitive at this point, and wants to shift away but, like the other said, he doesn’t want to wake up sticky in places he’d really rather not be. 

Once Dream has finished with that, he tosses the washcloth into what he assumes is a hamper, and returns to him, taking a hand into his own and pressing his lips to his knuckles with aching tenderness. “Here, you should take some ibuprofen,” Two red tablets are presented to him with a glass of water. “Helps the ache later on, trust me.”

“Thanks,” George manages to croak out, accepting the pills thankfully and swallowing them with abandon. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “Do you know where my underwear went?”

“Here,” He answers, proffering the small bundle of fabric and an extended arm. “Let me help you up.”

George takes the black cloth and grabs onto Dream’s strong arm, which lifts him without a hint of effort. It makes him swallow as he imagines him being able to do much more with that strength than simply steady him as he slides his wobbling legs into clothing again. 

“Want to watch a shitty movie or something? I know you’re tired.” 

He hums in agreement, letting his weight be supported by the other as he relaxes into his hold. “Sure, as long as I don’t have to go very far.”

They laugh together at that, and it’s hardly a moment before Dream stoops and he feels an arm hooking underneath his knees until he can carry him. George yelps in surprise, scrambling to throw his arms around the other’s neck, although a part of him knows there’s no way he’d fall. 

“There,” He states with finality, a mischievous gaze peering down at him. “Now you don’t have to go anywhere at all. Bed or couch?”

“Here- here is fine.” George stammers out, feeling his cheeks flare with scandalous thoughts despite having just come so hard he wasn’t sure he could get himself back up for days. 

Dream acknowledges his response, choosing not to poke fun at him for being flustered. “Grab my shoulders for a second. Gotta pull back the blankets.”

He does as he’s asked, holding onto him with the bit of strength his tired body has left and catches short fingernails over his sharp shoulder blades. It’s a bit disorienting as Dream bends down to fiddle with the sheets and the pillows, and he fears for a moment that he’ll be dropped, but the other’s hold never wavers. George can feel the muscles sliding under his skin, and does his best not to flush out of attraction. 

Finally, Dream leans all the way down and his back comes into contact with soft, silken sheets. “There, you can let go now,” He murmurs, reassuring, and presses a kiss just above his widow’s peak. “I just have to find the remote but, uh, I’ll be honest: I have no idea where it is, so you’re gonna have to give me a minute here.”

“Alright.” He huffs out, feigning annoyance, but it’s light enough that the other can tell. 

Dream flits about the room, poking through drawers and behind books left strewn about as he searches for his target. He can’t help but watch him as he settles against the pillows and appreciates the shape of his back, how it flexes with each dip and rise of his arms. Even if he hadn’t just been fucked within an inch of his life, Dream is exactly the kind of man he’d be attracted to. Upon further investigation, he does notice that a scar slashes its way across his lower back, clearly old and faded, but quite long. He’s naturally curious. 

“What happened to your back?” He calls out from the bed, slightly drawing his knees into himself as he adjusts. 

Dream twists around to face him, eyes briefly flickering down to a part of himself that he can’t see. “Ah, that,” He replies, stifling a laugh. “It’s a bit embarrassing, really. You wouldn’t want to know.”

George snickers. “Oh, now I absolutely have to know.”

The taller shoots a pointed glare his way before he caves, rolling his eyes and resuming his search. “I fell out of a tree when I was eight. I was pretty high up, and dropped right onto some pretty jagged rocks. Sixty stitches and a long time later, here I am with a big mark on my back.”

He winces from the image. “Well, at least you learned to stay out of trees.”

“Ha, I absolutely did not,” He barks out a laugh. “I was a terror as a kid.”

They laugh warmly together before it peters off into a natural quiet that’s only interrupted by Dream triumphantly pulling the remote from what looks like his sock drawer, of all places. It’s hardly a moment later that he’s jumping back onto the bed like an enthusiastic child, somehow managing to not jostle George as he slips beneath the covers to the right of him. He twists about for another moment, grabbing something from the side table, before finally stopping his movement. 

“Can I see your leg?” Dream asks gently, hand creeping to and then stilling over George’s right hip bone. 

“Oh, sure.” He shifts his knee open so that the other can more clearly access the still-heated flesh that’s just beginning to take on the dark tones of bruising. A flame flickers inside of him at the sight. 

Dream trails his hand lightly across it, caressing the purpling skin gently and tracing the mark of his own hand. Enraptured for all but a moment, he then replaces his fingers with what George quickly learns is ice wrapped in a towel. “Here,” He says, softly pressing it into his thigh and holding it there. “It obviously can’t stop any bruises from forming, but it should make them hurt a bit less. Sorry if I hit you too hard.”

George’s hand replaces Dream’s own on top of the chilled cloth, and he almost winces at the cold. “You didn’t,” He reassures, smiling up at him softly. “I could’ve stopped you anytime, but I never did.”

“Hmm, this is fair,” He agrees, hand lingering on George’s waistband. “Before we get settled, is there anything else you want? That you need?” His eyes are full of sincerity, a stable gentility that lulls George right into security. 

“I, um—” He feels blush rise on his cheeks for some reason, and he can’t quite meet the other’s gaze. “Can you just- can you keep touching me? Not, like, sexually. I just… want to feel you here, if that’s okay.”

A corner of Dream’s mouth tugs up, lazy and all too tender. “Of course, baby. Come here.” He opens his arms for George, and he happily falls, curling up against his side and nestling his head at the juncture between the blond’s neck and shoulder while his unbruised leg hooks over the other’s longer one. A strong arm wraps around his waist, while the second reaches for his hand, entwining their fingers together. Eventually, Dream’s cheek comes to rest against his scalp, and he feels himself pulled tighter into the other’s body. It’s what he needed after all of that intensity, where he was completely deprived of touch. It finally pulls the last of the tension from his body, and he practically collapses into his new position. 

“Do you care what we watch?” The other mumbles beneath him, the fingers on his waist tracing over his individual ribs like he was drawing them onto his skin. 

“Nope,” He slurs and relaxes into the warmth trapped under the blankets from their shared heat. Dream is solid and steady beneath him, gently moving George with the rise and fall of his bare chest. “Got to be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stay awake.”

Dream wheezes out a warm laugh before he turns on some streaming service or another. “Pick a number between one and twenty.”

He hums in contemplation for a moment, the corner of his mouth scrunching up. “Seventeen.”

“Alright, seventeenth title in the ‘new movies’ category, it is.”

Dream eventually picks something, and he doesn’t think either of them really pay attention to it. He continues to nuzzle into the other and tightens his grip around his broad chest, sinking down until all he can feel is Dream around him. The blond responds by pulling him closer and letting his head softly rest on top of his. It’s endearing, and it’s exactly what he needed. “This is like the polar opposite of what Netflix and chill is supposed to be.” He jokes, loving the way the other laughs beneath him. 

“Definitely a more literal meaning of the phrase, though,” Dream’s response isn’t technically incorrect, although it leaves him scoffing. “It’s not so bad.”

He hums into Dream’s warm skin, letting his eyes flutter shut as the nondescript movie plays in the background. Sleep starts to pull heavy on him, now, and the fatigue from the unbelievable ordeal he’d just been through fills him until his eyes are floating. 

Dream is quiet for a time, letting George simply enjoy his presence as soft canned music and poorly structured dialogue fills the air. Late night traffic still drones about beyond the windows, but it’s fading as the night shifts into that early city morning that was never truly black. “Hey, George?” He finally speaks, playing with the fingers he has clasped in his own. 

“Yeah?” George replies, not looking up far enough to meet his eyes, but tilting his head slightly upward to indicate that was his intention. 

“Was that good for you? Be honest with me: if we have any intention of doing this again, I need to know if I did what you needed.”

George finally does shift just a bit, propping himself up on Dream’s chest to look at his face, which is adorned with an expression of considerate contemplation. “There could be an ‘again’?”

“Only if you want there to be.”

“I…” He trails off. “I’m not even sure where to begin with how that made me feel.”

Dream’s eyebrows pinch together. “Is that a good or a bad thing? I honestly have no clue.”

“It’s a good thing,” He reassures, squeezing the other’s hand. “I can actually say I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life before. The whole thing was overwhelming and so fucking good and…” George stutters, not really certain what word would encapsulate it. “I mean, shit, I’ve never felt anything like it before.” 

The other regards him carefully, considering his words. “Was it what you thought it was going to be?”

George thinks for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think I even really had a solid thought of what it was going to be, coming into it,” He confesses. “I mean, I had my fantasies and what I could get from watching other people, but standing outside of your door, I had no earthly idea what I was really walking into. But, I definitely feel like a part of that curiosity has been… very well satisfied.” He’s too embarrassed to meet his eyes, so he lets his head drop until it’s found its place on Dream’s shoulder again. 

The blond laughs softly beneath him, tilting his head until his cheekbone is pressed to George’s mussed hair again. “Well, I’m very glad to hear there could be a next time,” He states, tone cheeky. “I mean, I think we had pretty good chemistry.”

He flushes, thankful the other can’t see him from his vantage point. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find you insanely attractive. Why you didn’t plaster your face all over our messages is a mystery to me.” 

Something between a snicker and an embarrassed stammer leaves Dream’s mouth. “I, um—” He doesn’t sound used to being complimented, which honestly confuses him. “I mean, I’m nothing compared to that pretty face of yours.” Ah, deflection. Now it was George’s turn to blush.

He clears his throat, trying to shrug off the heat rising fast on his face. He’s always been horrid at taking compliments. “I, uh, guess all of this was to say: yes, it was good, you did more than everything I needed. I wouldn’t… well, I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to do more than that.”

George can feel the other’s gaze on him, curious and most likely just a bit lustful. “Well, I’m sure you don’t want to think about getting railed again while you’re still recovering from this one, so we can talk about it in the morning.”

“Your ego is just fucking immense, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you definitely weren’t complaining about it half an hour ago, were you?”

George hates how that makes embers spark in his stomach, and the retorts die on his tongue. He feels the ache low in his back, and the throbbing of his thighs, and the glorious way the other’s hand had closed around his throat, and—

Dream yawns and shifts just slightly lower into the pillows, subtly pulling him a bit closer. It seemed he was very tactile, too. “Why don’t we just go to sleep, hmm? I can practically feel how tired you are.”

He hums in agreement, finally letting his eyelids fall so that he can abandon himself to the heaviness in his limbs at long last. Dream is an excellent pillow, he finds, and also exudes heat like a radiator so, even though most of his torso is completely open to the air, he doesn’t find himself feeling cold. He knows none of this really means anything, that it’s just a fuck and they could maybe be friends but nothing more, but for a moment he lets himself have this. He’ll take affection wherever he can get it.

Notes:

This is partially based in experience, with the rest relatively well-researched. I did my best to portray a healthy application of BDSM, but if I got anything wrong, please correct me in the comments! I made sure to focus a lot on consent and aftercare (and the latter is just straight-up fun to write since I love TendernessTM), so hopefully that effort comes through.

As always, let me know what you think! Come follow me on twitter for updates, etc. Thanks for stopping by!

 

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Chapter 2: Void and Vacancy

Summary:

The morning arrives and plans are made. But, unable to restrain his own longing, George asks to be surprised sooner than they’d planned, and Dream certainly delivers.

Notes:

Heyo it’s chapter two time! Some tenderness at the beginning, and some pining is finally introduced at the end :) we’re getting started folks.

Just like last time, this is *incredibly* explicit, so have fun!

FNF (who wishes to remain anonymous) also made incredible art for this chapter (i'm 95% sure it's this chapter lol), which they let me post. please go and give it the appreciation it deserves!

Like always: don’t repost, don’t share with CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will be immediately taken down in accordance.

UPDATE: Thank you to nyto/awakeuntilsunrise for providing some proofing long after publication. Holy SHIT did I have a lot of typos haha.

When George’s eyes crack open for the first time that morning, his line of sight is immediately coated in that uniquely harsh light of an electronic screen, a glowing wash dripping with ivory blue. It’s very dim, but he snaps his eyes shut immediately, nonetheless. The rest of the world, and his senses, trickle in slowly. His right cheek is just slightly clammy where it’s pressed to Dream’s chest; his hips and tailbone ache, dull but faintly throbbing as his heart sluggishly ticks along; there are fingers tracing feather-light patterns into the dip of his waist; a cat is softly mewling somewhere nearby. It’s clear Dream has been awake for at least a little while. 

George stirs just slightly, tilting his head further underneath Dream’s chin, and slides his free hand so it’s gently curving around the side of the other’s ribs. 

“Oh, shit,” Dream mutters, and clicks his phone off, the fingers on his waist coming to an unfortunate stop. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

He hums out a negation and buries himself further into the other. “Just don’t make me get up yet. ‘m not a morning person.” His voice is slurred with sleep, accent lower than it normally was. 

The blond laughs softly to himself and resumes running over his waist, dipping down to his hipbone and then back up. “It would be pretty rude of me to disturb sleeping beauty, huh?”

“Oh, shut up.” George chastises, but he doesn’t go to much effort to hide the blush in his words.

“How’re you feeling? Hopefully not too achy.” There’s a soft consideration to his tone. 

He takes stock of himself and what he’s feeling, and determines that, yes, he is sore, but it could be worse. “Not too bad. I’m sure I’m pretty bruised up, though.”

Dream makes an awkward sound, hand crawling down toward one of his hipbones, seeming to caress undoubtedly bruised flesh from where he’d begged Dream to hold him down. “Yeah, I did a bit of a number on you, I have to admit. To be fair, you did ask me to.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I did. Thank god it’s winter, though: I don’t even want to think about how awkward it’d be if I couldn’t cover my neck.”

That causes the man beneath him to laugh again, and having an ear pressed up against his ribcage makes it resonate further in his eardrum. “You’re gonna have some fun surprises when you go to shower, I’ll tell you that much, and I can’t even see most of you right now.”

At the mention of a shower, he perks up. Sure, he’d been cleaned up last night, but he had yet to fully wash the experience away, and he’d be lying if he said the idea wasn’t appealing. 

Dream seems to sense the change in his posture. “It’s the door directly across from the one to this room, if you want to go take one now. I think I have some extra soap under the sink, but feel free to use my shampoo and stuff; I don’t use anything fancy.”

“I actually think I’ll take you up on that,” George decides, shifting so that he can finally sit up, but still has yet to shrug Dream’s hold from his waist. He looks down at the other, whose golden eyes glow in the faint morning light that streams through the gap in the curtains and whose blond hair is mussed beyond repair over his forehead. He’s still so beautiful that it catches George off-guard. “I, um, thanks for the offer, I guess.”

He smiles lazily, squeezing just slightly where he’s holding onto George. “You really don’t need to thank me for letting you use my shower.”

“I’m just being polite.” He huffs, wiggling out of Dream’s grasp as the other laughs at his obstinance. 

George finally stands, and finds that, while his thighs still seem to tremble just slightly from last night, he’s able to make his way on his feet just fine. He’s used to feeling a little bit shaky after a particularly good night, but this was something else entirely: Dream had ruined him yesterday, totally and completely and in every sense of the word. 

He makes his way out of the door frame of the bedroom before walking directly into the bathroom, the transition from carpet to hardwood to chilled tile jarring on his bare feet. He closes the door behind him, and takes a moment to look around.

It’s a fairly simple thing, just a basic four-piece washroom, but the shower and the tub are separate, and it’s a half-decent size. He wants to say he’s surprised by how neat the whole room is but, then again, it’s not like what he’d seen of the rest of the flat was messy. As he slips off his black boxer briefs and goes to fiddle with the shower tap, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stops dead in his tracks. 

George can hardly recognize himself, absolutely debauched and littered with marks. Staring at his reflection, he reaches his hands up to trace over the damage, starting with his throat. Dream had clearly known what he was doing when he was choking him, because no signs of that remained, but what did remain were the very pronounced blue marks of his teeth, beginning halfway down his throat and wrapping around his collar bones until they meandered down his chest to speckle both of his thighs. Speaking of, his right thigh bore a large bruise, roughly the size of Dream’s capable hands, surrounded by the lightest traces of rope burn in the patterns left by the ties which had bound him. The same marks crawled up his forearms and his wrists, all topped off with another hand-shaped blotch on his left hipbone. 

He feels possessed, outside of himself, not used to seeing such visible and plain proof of being fucked out of his mind. It’s shocking, seeing himself like this, and he trails his thin hands over each of the marks, caught somewhere between reverence and awe. The sight, combined with the slight twinge as he runs across the more sensitive surfaces, sets off a spark in the pit of his stomach, and he feels his cock twitch in interest. 

Embarrassed, he whips away from the mirror and goes to turn on the shower, waiting for the water to warm. There’s no way he’s getting himself off in a near-stranger’s shower. Absolutely not. He has basic human standards.

The streams of hot water immediately cause him to melt, muscles releasing any and all tension they still held. It feels soothing on the sorer parts of his low back and thighs, where he’d had to seize them in order to stop himself from writhing last night, and he lets himself get caught in it. 

Eventually, he opens his eyes and gets about to properly cleaning himself, reaching for shampoo from a brand he doesn’t recognize. When he pops open the cap to squeeze some onto an open palm, he realizes it smells just like the lime and orange he’d adored on Dream. It’s stronger, coming straight from the bottle, but it’s undoubtedly the same. He lets the scent wash over him the entire time he’s in the shower, the hot water finally easing into his skin and making him feel like he’s leaving the trance of the past twelve hours and reentering the normal world. 

Once he’s done, he dries off with a towel that looks a dark yellow color, but he reasons is likely green instead. After he’s gone through the motions, he briefly looks at his reflection in the mirror again, tilting his head to the side so he can examine the column of his neck. It fills him with a dark satisfaction, and he can’t help but regard himself with lechery. He feels good like this, he decides, and he doesn’t want this to be the last time he experiences it. 

Crossing the hallway once more, George is met with an empty room, the bed still unmade. “Dream?” He calls out, briefly scanning the floor until he finds where he’d discarded his trousers and button-down crumpled by the foot of the bed. He’ll have to iron them once he gets back home, he realizes with a frown. 

“Oh, I’m in the kitchen,” The other’s voice is faint, but upon further listening, he can also hear the faint sizzle of something in a pan. “Sorry I didn’t say so, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s alright.” He calls back, not having to raise his voice much due to the fairly small size of the flat. 

George slips on his clothes, doing his best to smooth the wrinkles without pressing too hard on his aching thigh and hips, before emerging from the bedroom permanently at long last. 

The flat looks the same as it had last night, albeit with much more light streaming in from open windows. Dream is standing in the kitchen over the stove, poking at something he’s guessing was to be breakfast. He’s finally put on a shirt (which George thinks is a tragic loss on his part), but he’s still treated to the site of his muscles pressing just slightly against the fabric. As he tends to the pan in front of him, Dream hums softly under his breath, and it’s so painfully domestic that George can’t help but smile. 

“Hey,” He finally says, sliding onto a barstool perched beyond the edge of the countertop. “What’re you making?”

Dream turns at last, and he’s greeted with the sight of a bleary, freckled face still sporting an easy grin. “Omelets.” He declares, before turning back to the eggs. 

George hums in acknowledgement, leaning his elbows on the countertop before resting his chin in his hands. He simply watches the other as he goes about a morning routine, making breakfast simply because he wanted to, not because George asked. He could have kicked him out the moment they’d woken up, but he’d instead offered him affection, his shower, and now a homemade meal. 

The rest of the time they spend together is fairly uneventful. While they eat surprisingly well-made food, Dream pokes at how good the button down supposedly makes him look, and George learns about the other’s favorite television tropes, which is a surprisingly exhaustive list. Halfway through, his cat interrupts them, whose name is Patches, and she’s excessively sweet, if shy. 

By the time it’s over, and George is watching Dream clean dishes, there’s a question buzzing on his tongue that he’s been holding back since last night, and his patience finally reaches its limit. “Hey, did you want to do this again some time?”

The tall man turns to look at him, hands still lathered in dish soap. He takes a moment to process the question and, once he finally does, quirks up one side of his mouth with an air of confidence that simultaneously pisses George off and attracts him even more. “I’d love to see you come undone like that again, George,” His voice dips just slightly, slipping into a tone that sends shivers down his spine. “And you were so fucking good for me; how could I ever say no?”

He has to work around the lump in his throat, knowing that the other is completely and totally aware of what he’s doing to him. “Well, I’m busy this weekend, so how about the one after that?”

Dream’s sly grin still slinks across his face. “What a shame we have to wait so long, but, yeah, that works for me.” His voice returns to its normal pitch, and he turns back to the sink as if he hadn’t just lit a flame underneath George. 

“Next weekend, then.”

“Next weekend.”

---

He lasts just shy of a week before he’s messaging Dream asking if he could come over sooner than he’d originally planned. He can’t get that night out of his mind, and it replays every time he goes to close his eyes: the honeyed bite of rope against his soft skin, strong hands treating him so roughly, an orgasm so hard that he’d been briefly sent to another plane of existence. No matter how many times he wrapped his hand around his cock, or reached inside of himself, it all felt so mild compared to what Dream had done to him. He’d had enough of sticky hands in sweaty sheets, nothing quite satisfying the ache inside of him, and so he messages him a time before the day they’d originally set:

 

are you busy the next couple of days?

 

Initially, it takes Dream several hours to respond, and he chastises himself the entire time, thinking he’d proved himself too needy for the other. When he finally does respond, it’s sometime after dinner, and George is in the middle of washing out the pots he’d used to cook his meal. The moment he hears his phone ping, he immediately dries his hands and goes to pick it up. 

 

i’m meeting up with a friend for dinner on friday

but I don’t really have anything else beyond that

couldn’t wait for me? ;)

 

George flushes at the teasing response, scoffing, as if he could deny he was down bad for the things Dream could do to him. He types and retypes his responses a couple of times, alternating back and forth between cheeky retorts, but eventually he settles of something closer to honestly:

 

the marks you left have faded and I just think that’s a shame you know? 

 

well why didn’t you just open with that?

i'd be happy to paint that pretty skin of yours again baby

 

He swallows hard at that, fingers hovering over the screen as he types out a response. 

 

that's so nice of you to do for me

when can I come over?

 

hmm are you free tomorrow night?

 

George steadies his breathing to stop his imagination from running wild with fantasies of what cruel and wonderful things the other could do to him. 

 

I don’t have any other plans

 

fantastic

come over after you’re off work 

is there anything you wanted to do?

 

no

 

He finally decides to send, before following it with:

 

surprise me

 

Dream types on and off several times, and George waits with bated breath for him to finally press the blue arrow. 

 

i’m very good at surprises

i’ll see you tomorrow then 

 

George takes a shaky breath in and places his phone back on the counter before leaning against the rim of his sink.

Tomorrow. 

---

He takes care to wear something that will wrinkle less easily, opting for jeans and a jumper, and spends the entire train ride to Dream’s flat fiddling with the knitted hem in anticipation. He wants to feel stupid for being so needy, but the closer he gets, the more he finds that he can’t find it in himself to actually be frustrated. It had been so… perfect, and he was just a human being: how could he not want more?

They’d messaged back and forth a handful of times since he’d slipped from his office and begun the journey here, with the other informing him that he was doing just the same thing, although he should (all things considered) get home just a bit before George arrives since he actually drives. A part of him hopes that Dream will appear before him in a tailored collared shirt and slacks fit for those long legs of his, curious as to what he’ll look like in more formal wear, but he knows it ultimately won’t matter. After all, the entire point of this is that neither of them will be wearing anything in the end, although George can’t help but think back to the idea of leather and latex and lace clinging to his skin. 

The rest of his train ride is uneventful, the subtle ambiance of the city swirling around him and lulling him into a state of greater calm. He’s a lot less nervous than last time, that much is for sure, and all he can feel roiling in the pit of his stomach is anticipation: glorious, suspenseful, exhilarating anticipation. He’d known what he was signing himself up for when he told Dream to surprise him, and he only grows more content with his decision by the minute. 

By the time he’s ringing Dream’s buzzer again, he has to keep plunging his thoughts in cold water, unless he wants to be standing on a public street with a very obvious hard-on in his jeans. The idea of being restrained, unable to do anything to get satisfaction, completely in the other’s care sends up a flare inside of him. 

When the blond answers the door, he’d be lying if he said his eyes aren’t incredibly happy to take him in again. His freckled face and golden irises and that infuriatingly wonderful smile greet him, relaxed and just starting to border on cocky. “Hey, George.”

“Hi, Dream.”

He gestures with a flourish, stepping aside so he’s no longer blocking the front door. “Do come in.”

George rolls his eyes and lightly boxes the other on the bicep as he passes him, but follows him nonetheless as they ascend the several flights of stairs and enter his actual flat. 

“How was work?” Dream asks, all casual cordiality as the two let themselves fall onto his couch. 

He sighs before rolling his head to look at the other. “Stressful.”

A corner of his mouth pulls and his eyes grow sympathetic for all but a moment before shifting into something darker. “Bet you’re just dying to have that stress worked out of you, hmm?”

“More than you know,” He responds, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in anticipation. “Did you have something in mind?”

Dream hums. “Well, how do you feel about sensory deprivation?”

George cocks his head to the side. “How do you mean?”

“Last time, you could see everything that I was doing,” He explains, bringing up a hand to trace along George’s jaw, causing him to shudder. “But, what if you couldn’t?”

George thinks over the words. “In other words, you’ll be surprising me?”

Dream smirks. “Exactly. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He nods, thinking it over. “Would you still tie me up?”

“Of course, doll,” He responds, a mischievous look spreading across his face. “I couldn’t have you feeling stuff out using those pretty fingers of yours. I’ll tie you up even better than last time,    make you look so lovely.”

He breathes shakily, neurons creeping with thoughts and images that make him begin to flush. “I- I want you to do that again,” George confesses, thinking back to the way he’d felt last time, rope biting into heated skin. “Do you think that I’ll experience that same thing that I did last time? Where I couldn’t talk?”

The hand still lingering on his cheek continued to tenderly trail along the skin there, affectionate rather than tempting. “There’s no way to say. You could, or you couldn’t. It won’t happen every time, and there’s no surefire way to trigger it. But we know how to handle it now if it does.”

George nods, leaning into his touch. 

“You trust me, George?” His voice is steady, authoritative. How could he not let it lull him into security?

His eyes slip shut. “Yes, sir."

Dream withdraws from him and, even before he opens his eyes, he can feel the other standing as his weight shifts off the couch. “Come with me, then.”

George continues to follow the other, trekking over now somewhat familiar floors, until they enter the bedroom again, the door closing behind him. Large hands slide around his waist from behind, and he almost jumps at the sudden touch. They’re followed by a set of soft lips at his neck, pressing right at the juncture where it meets his shoulders and trailing up and down the expanse not covered by George’s jumper. It’s terribly sweet for a few moments, but he’s brought back by the hard sting of Dream’s teeth sinking into the skin there. He gasps out softly and clasps his hands over the other’s at his waist, pulling him closer until he can feel him pressed flush against his back. 

“Enjoy this, Georgie, because this is the last touching you’ll be able to do for a long while.” Dream’s breath is hot against his throat, curling and almost as sharp as his teeth when he seals them around his flesh again. 

He mewls out and grinds back against Dream just slightly, tilting his head further to the side so the other has even more open access. The hands slip from underneath his and move south before sliding under his jumper and grappling bare skin. As they work back upward, they drag the fabric with them until the other is pulling hard on his nipples and sending him keening. George begins to feel heat stirring in his hips, his cock starting to express proper interest without his own thoughts having to suppress it. Dream’s fingers are just slightly calloused, and the rough pads drag trails of fire across his chest. He’s not actually had his sight taken away yet, but this is a tantalizing hint of what’s to come. 

Dream stops his movement, and George tries his best to move against him, encourage him to resume, but he holds fast. “You know what you’re supposed to do now,” He says it right into his ear before pulling the lobe between his teeth, but not hard enough to leave marks. “Strip.”

He nods as the other pulls back to watch, not himself feeling brave enough to face him. He stays turned in the direction he had been and his hands go to the button on his pants, quickly undoing it before tugging down the zipper and dragging the fabric all the way off of his slim legs. The jumper is next, pulled over his head with half a movement, after which it joins the small pile of clothes that he’s accumulated next to him. He stands stock-still, waiting for Dream to do something, to say something, and is left in anticipation for several long moments before fingertips push hard against the top of his back, sending him stumbling. 

“Dream, what the hell are—”

When he whips around to look back at the other, he’s met with dark eyes and a heavy gaze that makes George feel like his body is entirely transparent. “On the bed, on your knees, George.”

He swallows, and stammers. “Yes, sir.”  George does as he asks: he climbs onto the bed and sits on his calves, facing the headboard and trying to anticipate what Dream will have him do next. He’s half hard already, the touches from earlier still lingering on his skin as the bite marks gently throb. 

There’s the sound of drawers opening, and he sincerely hopes that it’s to fetch loops of rope again. He hears rustling, the gathering of objects, but he keeps his gaze trained on the wall in front of him in an effort to keep the suspension. 

The next time Dream speaks, he’s back to his relaxed self, clearly preparing to set up whatever on earth he’s going to do to George. “Would it be okay if I tied your arms together? Behind your back? If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s completely fine, and we’ll do something else.”

George thinks back to last time, to his nerves as he’d had control taken away from him. The prospect of having all of that deprivation wrapped up in one had sent spikes of anxiety through him but, now that the other had coaxed him through that first session where he’d even ended up unable to speak, he trusts him. “That'd be alright.”

“Okay,” Dream confirms, and he feels the bed dip as his weight settles on it. “Would you give me your hands, then?”

George moves his hands from where they lie over his unmarked thighs so that his elbows fall just behind the slope of his spine. It’s hardly a moment later when he feels careful hands slide over his forearms to manipulate them, bending his elbows at ninety-degree angles and stacking one forearm atop another against his back. First, the right arm is beneath the left, then it’s reversed. “The second one feels more comfortable,” He chimes in, having a feeling the other would ask. “Having my left arm below.”

Dream makes a noise of mild surprise,. “Oh, thank you. I was just about to ask, actually.” He adjusts him a few more times before George hears the slide of rope unwinding. 

It makes his breath catch. 

He feels the cotton line gliding over his skin as Dream slightly adjusts his held-together forearms so that he has enough room to maneuver into the space between them and his back. The work begins slowly, with simple loops going over each arm individually before Dream begins to tie the knots, first to secure a latticework around both limbs, then to tie them together. He takes his time, drawing each length of rope with precision until he removes his hands at last. 

“Pull on those for me, baby.”

“Like I’m trying to get out?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

George does as he’s told, trying first to slide his arms out, then to pull them apart. Neither causes anything to move, and he has to swallow, hard, at the feeling of rope pulling against his skin again.

Dream hums in appraisal. “Not too tight?”

He shakes his head, testing them once more before going limp in their hold. “What happens if I have an itch or something before we start?”

It’s meant as a joke, and it thankfully hits, the other cracking up before abruptly wheezing out laughter. “Well,” Another gasp of laughter. “I’ll help you with that too.”

George joins him in the comfortable ease developing between them, and tries to crane his head around to look at him. He’s met with a tap to his cheek, turning him back around. 

“Nope,” Dream says, a tick of light annoyance in his voice. “You stay right where you are until I move you, alright?”

“Yes, sir.” He responds, resuming his fix on the wall before him.

“Sit up, on your knees, so I can bind your legs.” 

George does, and it’s only a beat later that he feels hands on his thighs, nudging them just slightly apart. The touch is tantalizing and teasing, so terribly close to where he ideally would’ve liked it, and his breathing only stutters further when he feels those long fingers bring more rope with them. 

The longer it goes on, the more Dream’s fingers skim along the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs, the harder he finds himself getting. His cock flushes with blood and he feels a dusting of tint spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. Dream, of course, doesn’t let that escape his notice. 

He suddenly snaps a rope tight, causing George to cry out. “You just get so worked up before I even touch you, don’t you?”

“I can’t help it,” He gasps. “The anticipation is killing me, and your hands, they’re…” He trails off before he can finish, not quite sure what word to use for it.

“What are they, baby? Tell me how I make you feel.” Dream commands from behind him, fingertips continuing to pull the rope tight, just skirting his ass. 

He breathes in shakily, trying to gather his composure. “I want them all over me. You keep touching just outside where I need you: it’s so frustrating.”

Dream ties another knot, and he can feel his thighs straining against the lattice of ropes. “Well, I could just not touch you at all, then. Is that what you want?” He’s completely covered George’s left thigh, and is now moving on to his right. 

He groans, trying to get his frustration across. “No, no, please not that. I just- I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” He retorts, tone level and half-bored. It’s accompanied by quick work that leaves his right thigh wrapped in rope. He moves on to join them together so he’s truly bound. 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” George lets a light moan fall from his mouth when a hand trails high on his thighs as they’re further spread for access to restrain them. “I- I want them around my cock, or inside of me, or anything that’s more than this.”

There’s a tsk behind him, and he feels the cotton drawn tight as his legs are sealed shut. He pushes against the rope, trying to separate them, but nothing budges. “So impatient, George. Begging to come over before we agreed, and now that you’re here, you can’t even wait until I’m done tying you up.”

George makes a guilty noise, but it still doesn’t change the fact that he wants to be touched . “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help it,” He flushes a bit out of embarrassment at the words, although they still feel right for the situation, regardless. He’s slowly getting used to begging, to being submissive to Dream. “You know how to make me feel good.”

“I do, but you have to be good and wait if you want me to actually do that,” He ripostes before he feels a hand on his upper back again, warning him before he’ll inevitably be pushed. “Lie down, on your chest.”

George lets himself fall, turning his head so his cheek softly collides with the mattress along with his shoulders. It isn’t the most comfortable position in the world, but having his arms tied behind him, unable to support himself in any meaningful capacity, lights some of his nerves on fire. Being posed like this, with his ass entirely on display, also makes him blush, but the attention simultaneously makes his cock twitch. 

Dream hums, and the fingertips he trails low across his back make him shudder. “You look so good like this, baby. Let me finish tying you up, and then we can finally start, okay?”

“Okay.” George confirms, waiting with anxious anticipation.

The final parts of him that Dream decides to tie are his ankles, bound in pretty knots and loops of rope that feel almost bare-bones in their simplicity. Despite it, when the blond orders him to test each of the bindings constraining him, not a single part of him can break free from their hold. The chaffing of the rope on his sensitive thighs sends more heat trickling down his spine, and not being able to see Dream to any of it doesn’t even remotely reduce the effect he’s having on him. 

Then, the inevitable ask: "Color?"

"Green." If there was a color more comfortable than that, he'd certainly say it. He isn't just okay with this, he loves it.

“Well, then,” Dream says, an air of finality in his tone. “Only two things left.”

“Two?” He questions.

He can’t feel him move away, but he certainly hears the rustling of the contents of drawers as he searches for something or other. George only realizes what exactly he’s gotten when Dream’s hands light atop the crown of his head before burying in his hair and tugging him upward by it. George yelps at the stinging that washes over his scalp, unable to even remotely soothe the pain of it. Thankfully, the force Dream uses eases when he’s upright again, only pulling on it lightly: enough to sting, but not enough to truly ache. At last, he does let go, and George sighs in relief, waiting for his next actions. 

Hands slide over his shoulders to his front, glancing along his jaw and dragging what feels like a band of silk along with them. A blindfold, it had to be. 

George is proven correct when the ribbon is held up in front of him. Dream pauses before he moves on. “Color?”

He swallows in anticipation, knowing that he is not only giving up his freedom of movement, but also his ability to take in a lot of his surroundings. It makes his heart stutter. “Green.”

With that, the silk is pressed over his eyes and he feels Dream tie it in a slim but firm knot at the back of his head, fading into where his hair has begun to grow a bit longer. 

“Now, you know there’s one last place I have to restrain,” Dream’s hands dip down, down, down until they’re brushing George’s hips. “Will you be a good boy for me and let me do that?”

His breath, hitches. “Can I- do I have to stay still again this time?”

“Hmm,” He hums, tracing circles around the tops of his hipbones, making him slightly squirm against the touch. “Well, since you’re losing something else, I supposed I should be merciful and remove that little rule.”

“Thank you, sir.” He gasps out, only a moment before Dream takes his cock in his hand and he shamelessly bucks into it. A moan leaves his mouth in tandem. 

Something slips past his head, sliding down the shaft until Dream carefully takes his balls and pushes them through. He feels cool metal resting against his pelvis now, immediately putting pressure on his still-hardening cock. He thrusts into Dream’s touch again, but he pulls away, leaving him whining. 

“I thought we’d use something a little more… permanent than rope this time,” Dream explains. “It’ll turn you such a lovely shade of red.” A finger trails up his length, hardly more than a fingernail, really, but he arcs into it, nonetheless. 

His touch crawls up until it’s returned to his upper back again and roughly pushes him down into the sheets. George lets it happen, turning his head to more comfortably nestle into the fabric there, and tries to brush his cock against his stomach in an effort to get relief, or just stimulation in general. The angle isn’t great and, in the end, he knows that he just ends up with his ass higher in the air and more exposed to Dream. 

The other has retreated, George unable to tell where he is without sight. After listening for a few moments, he hears the slide of fabric over skin, and his mind ticks with images of Dream’s body from last time: lean but still muscular, warm skin dusted with freckles, an impressive cock. He’s being deprived of that arousing sight this time, and so he’s left with only his thoughts: a disappointment, yet it also makes things somehow more tantalizing. He keeps waiting for Dream to touch him, to do something , but as the seconds tick by into several minutes, his hips begin to grow restless, rubbing his knotted thighs together to feel the sweet friction of rough cotton on his skin. 

“Dream?” He calls out, at least wanting to confirm the other is still there. 

He doesn’t receive a response, and his stomach begins to fill with butterflies. It isn’t a feeling of dread; maybe unease is a better way to put it. He knows, logically, that the bedroom door hasn’t opened, and it certainly hasn’t shut, and that Dream is still here. Nonetheless, he can’t keep the creep of nervous anticipation from overtaking him. George’s breathing shudders as he waits, left to the mercy of an empty room and his own thoughts. 

Minutes tick by and he finally hears the telltale sound of skin against some sort of fabric; he couldn’t be sure which kind. Out of nowhere, he feels what he realizes is a strip of leather trailing low across his back. He arches into it, eager to feel an actual touch at last after an absence. George doesn’t even take the time to contemplate what the leather actually means, and so it shocks him when Dream brings it down with a sharp bit of force on his exposed ass. He cries out at the sudden sting of pain, noise muffled by the blankets beneath him. 

Dream doesn’t say anything in the wake of the hit, and withdraws again, leaving him gasping as he feels a stripe of skin beginning to glow with heat. “Dream, why did you—”

“Color?” It’s the first time he’s heard him speak since he’d slipped the cock ring on George. 

He pauses to think, slightly rattled by the shock of the crop. He’s reeling and a bit uncertain, but he doesn’t necessarily want it to stop. “Yellow.” He confirms. 

“Let me know if it goes to red.” Dream falls to silence again, and if he listens hard, he can sense him circling the bed. The next touch to come is a gentle one, a single fingertip trailing down his spine, from the knob at the base of his neck down to his tailbone. Once it reaches his coccyx, it slides away into the empty air once more and he tries to chase it, but he’s unsuccessful, unable to gain any leverage due to his position and restraints. George whines at the loss, wanting to feel anything more than a fleeting touch. 

He doesn’t know how long Dream continues like this, not using the crop again but only occasionally dragging a calloused fingertip along random parts of his body: his cheek, his shoulder blades, his thighs, one of his bound forearms. As each comes and passes, he’s left feeling more infuriated, somehow. It’s not even like Dream is actually touching him where he wants it. Yet, the longer it goes on, the more sensitive his skin seems to grow, each glance sending chills rushing down his spine and gooseflesh rising across his shoulders and biceps. It makes the next hit of the riding crop on his ass absolutely sing , the pinpricks of pain swarming through his system, already overly attuned to any physical touch he got. 

Rather than crying out in pain this time, though, a moan leaves his mouth instead. He can’t control the pulse that shoots through his cock, and he turns his face into the sheets to muffle the noise. The response he gets is another harsh pull of his hair, tugging his head upwards, but not enough to lift any of his body.

“Don’t you dare try to keep quiet,” Dream hisses, and he suddenly feels breath on his ear as the other curls closer. “Wasn’t that the point of leaving your pretty lips unoccupied?”

“Yes,” He gasps, trying to lessen the overwhelming sting of his hair being pulled. “I’m sorry, sir, I'm sorry.”

The hand harshly releases from his dark hair, pushing him back down into the mattress in the process, before it leaves him again. Dream replaces one form of pain with another as a new hit collides with already bruising stripes across his ass. “Fuck!” Slips from him, tears springing into his eyes in tandem as the skin left behind begins to heat against the cool air. Saltwater trails down his face until it joins with the silk stretched over his eyes, dampening it for the first time that night, but certainly not the last.

“Dream!” He yelps again as another hit comes, but his cock only twitches again, causing the end of his call to fade into another moan. “Oh, god—”

Rather than the leather scraping harsh across his skin, he instead feels gentle hands ghosting across the aching expanse, causing him to flush as he melts into it, trying to increase the contact. Dream doesn’t pull away from his efforts, letting him chase his touch. “That’s better,” He soothes, voice kind, if taunting. “You make such beautiful sounds, George, did you know that? So needy, and I’m hardly even touching you.”

He moans out a response, tone edging onto desperate toward the close. “I- I want you. Please, sir. Need you to touch me.”

The other hums in contemplation, considering his request and continuing to gently caress his upper thighs and his ass. His hands are tender, softly dipping into suppler flesh as though he were giving a massage, or a lover carefully working away their partner’s stress. The contrast is jarring, from the domineering strikes of the crop to… this. It sends strange electric pulses through his nerves, confused as to what to expect, if to expect anything at all. He isn’t even sure which he wants from Dream; whether he wants to be hurt or wants to be adored or, fuck, if he wants to be ignored. It’s a strange mélange of confusing sensations, all further heightened by the fact he can’t see a goddamn thing. 

Eventually, the question is answered when Dream pulls away again, leaving him whining in frustration. There’s fire being stoked low in his stomach, sending sparks until his length is throbbing, the cool metal at its base long warmed by the rushing blood beneath it. “Please.” He begs, abandoning any pretense of dignity. 

“Why should I indulge you?” Dream replies, words curling with acidic teasing. “I’m perfectly happy fucking into my own hand while I just watch your ass turn black and blue.”

George squirms in a vain attempt to get friction somewhere, anywhere, besides his thighs. “I-I can be good for you. I can make you feel good, I promise,” He tries, arching his back more deeply to emphasize what was on offer. “Using me would be so much better than your hand.”

There’s a soft noise of thought, followed by that awful silence yet again. It remains like that for a time until he suddenly hears the wet sound of lube being rubbed between Dream’s fingers. His breath stills as he anticipates what’s to come but, at the same time, he knows the night is far too young for this to already be approaching its close. 

He can hear Dream come closer before he speaks again. “Well, I won’t touch you, at least not yet,” He begins, voice almost remorseful, yet spiked through with sadistic pleasure. “But I’ll be happy to fill you up with something else."

It’s then that he feels something cool and wet press against his entrance, startling him and making him keen in desire. It’s not what he wants, but he just needs something at this point to at least mitigate the ache that’s taken over his hips. “Please, I need to be touched.”

“I know, baby,” Dream soothes, “So desperate and messy for me. I just love watching you fall apart. Want to let me do that?”

“Yes.” He replies immediately, almost cutting the other off, which earns him a light nick from the crop on already sensitive skin. 

“Watch it.” He’s warned, but he’s instead rewarded by a press of whatever toy Dream has in hand. 

George pushes against it, trying to relax every muscle in his body so that he could finally get something inside of him. Dream notices his effort and spreads a large hand low on his back, spanning from his bound arms to his ass with hardly any spread of his fingers. 

“You need to be patient, baby,” He coos, beginning a shallow back and forth motion with the toy in an effort to open him up. “You know it won’t be pleasant if you rush it.”

He wants to say I don’t care , but he knows that Dream’s right, in the end, and so he has to live with the teasing for the time being. It only adds more frustration to the fire building inside of him as it rocks in and out of him, the pleasant burn of the early stretch filling his senses without the accompanying relief of actually being filled. It’s exasperating, the feeling of annoyance only heightened by the fact he can’t even move half of his body. Each time he stretches against the binds against his arms, he relishes the bite against skin and finds himself straining harder. 

After another minute, there’s a push against him and he moans out as he feels whatever the toy is finally slip inside of him, the flared base coming to rest against the slick skin beyond it. The satisfaction quickly turns to an even higher level of cloying need when it suddenly begins to vibrate. “Oh, god!” George chokes out, his fingernails digging into his forearms in an attempt to maintain his grip. 

Dream chuckles lightly. “Better?”

“I- oh!” He’s interrupted again when Dream shifts whatever is inside of him until it presses, just barely, against his prostate. “It’s- that’s better, yeah.”

“Good, good,” He coos, stroking his hand down his back again. “Well, I’m going to go and get a glass of water. This was all so short notice; I didn’t have much time before you got here, you know? I’m a bit thirsty.”

He withdraws, and George fights through the haze of pleasure rapidly descending upon him to startle for a moment. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Only for a second, doll,” Dream reassures. “I’ll be back, so just keep making those lovely noises for me, okay?”

He nods into the sheets, and hears the bedroom door open and the other step out. Left alone, he suddenly feels somehow more exposed without Dream in the room with him. Blush rises on his face, pressed to the mattress, but he can’t stop the subconscious motions of his hips as he tries to pull the toy further inside of him. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, this: when his own fingers fell short, he resorted to the same back in the privacy of his own flat, but being left like this on someone else’s bed felt taboo somehow. Taboo in the incredibly alluring way, of course. It was like he was getting himself off at someone’s house party, locked behind only a thin door that separated him from an oblivious crowd. 

The more George’s thoughts wander, the more he finds them back on Dream. That stupid smirk; the gently carved expanse of his chest and the notches above his hips; the way his sharp face had melted in pleasure. A part of him hates that he won’t get treated to that sight this time, but… 

He’s arching, chest now flush with the bed as he lets himself drown in the warm static rising in his hips. Every spasm of his walls only tugs the vibrations further against his sweet spot, turning his world into haze. He grows so wrapped up in it, trying to create any friction that he can, that he honestly can’t be sure how much time passes like this. The room is filled with the muted sounds of buzzing, and his desperate pants and whines as he chases satisfaction. He’s purposefully verbal, hoping that if he’s loud enough, Dream will come back more quickly. 

Time stretches on, and he has to keep pushing down the inevitable (if ridiculous) concern that Dream has just completely left him. After all, he’d asked to be surprised, hadn’t he? But, no, that’s silly. He might not have been able to see Dream, but he knows that the other is just as riled up as he is. No matter how much he wanted to draw George tight, leave him hanging and desperate and begging, he knew that he wouldn’t just leave completely. It’s a waiting game, but the longer his sensitive gland is subjected to the vibrations, he isn’t sure if he’s going to win it. He can’t stop a particularly loud moan from leaving his mouth as he thinks of it.

George’s toes curl as pinpricks race down his spine and his cock twitches against the metal band constraining it. With his position, he can’t quite get any relief from the fabric below him, and any fleeting grinds against his abdomen are too light to do much; all that he has is the small silicone toy inside of him, but between that and the ropes and the fact he can’t see a single fucking thing, it might be enough this time. 

“D-Dream?” He calls out into empty air, no honest idea where the other is. “Please, I can’t- I don’t know if I can—” He’s cut off by his own aching pleasure, cries of reluctance spilling from him. “I’m too close, please, turn it off.”

There’s no response, and he whimpers at the thought of not being able to come with Dream inside of him. He hadn’t been allowed to last time, either, but he’d at least gotten fucked beforehand. The last thing he wants is to have this be all he gets. It would only make him even more eager to come back, hardly satisfied. 

Finally, fucking finally , he hears the door to the bedroom close, and he practically sobs in relief. “Dream, please, I’m way too close. I don’t want to come like this, please.”

Dream hums, the only indication he’s in the room. He has no idea where he actually is, but George can just tell he’s circling the bed like a shark, taking him in from all angles. “You’re such a sight, though. Why should I deprive myself of that? And that pretty little ring isn’t as tight as the rope, so it wouldn’t be a cruel stop like last time around.”

“No, I—” He moans out again as he feels his insides tremble, much too close for comfort.  Frustrated tears build in his eyes. “I want to come on your cock. Not like this, please.”

The yelp he chokes out when the crop suddenly carves another stripe on his ass, out of nowhere, immediately pitches down into a low moan that only makes him throb harder. “Think of it this way,” Dream begins, the flat leather tip trailing along the screaming flesh. “If you come right now, it doesn’t matter to me. I will be using you either way, George, and whether you’re oversensitive or not when I do isn’t my concern. Think of it as your punishment for not being able to hold out until you were meant to. I told you last time, didn’t I, that this is how I could make you scream?”

He recalls a lust-hazed moment, when Dream had hissed into his ear that he could leave him tied up like this for hours, made to come over and over again, and it somehow only makes him feel closer. “Please.” George tries again once more, making sure to put every ounce of pleading that he can into it. It’s sincere. 

“Hmm, I don’t think I’ll spoil you this time. Maybe if you ask me nicely later, though, I’ll make you come again: on my cock, just like how you want it. You shouldn’t be complaining about me letting you make a mess of yourself, anyway. That’s usually what you’re meant to beg for .” The words are sharp and acidic, and it only causes the arousal in him to spike.

George feels the characteristic tightening of the spring deep in his pelvis, slow and building rather than sharp and sudden, since he can’t touch himself. “Fuck,” He murmurs, scrunching his eyes tight as he tries to keep it at bay. “I just— god. ”

Suddenly, there’s hot breath next to his face and he can tell Dream has knelt down next to him on the floor, staring directly at his blindfolded face, likely red and starting to take on a sheen of sweat. “You’re close for me, baby, aren’t you? I wasn’t even gone for that long. God, you’re desperate.”

“I’m desperate,” He agrees quickly, realizing there’s no use in trying to deny it at this point. Maybe he could be a pain in the ass some other time, but when he was on the brink of orgasm probably wasn’t the right moment. “I- I need you.”

“You’ll get me,” Dream answers, a fingernail tracing the curve of his jaw, making him shudder. “But what I need is to watch you come undone just because of a little plastic thing first. How close are you, anyway, George?”

He tries to lean into Dream’s touch, but it’s fleeting, just like all the others. “I’m- I’m so close, sir.”

George doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want this to be over yet, and he’s never managed to have a short refractory period. If he fucks this up now, odds are he’ll just get riled up again, but not be able to follow through. It would be infuriating, but he’s teetering on the point of no return: once he passes it, he’s going over the cliff, whether he wants to or not. 

“Well then, George,” Dream shifts until he’s right over George, his teeth ghosting over his ear lobe. “Why don’t you come for me after I count from ten, hmm?”

“I don’t know if that’s something I can do.” He’s never had to do it on cue before. 

Dream takes his ear lobe between his teeth, and he cries out at the gentle nipping sensation, his hot breath fanning across the high of his cheek. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

He nods, and is only met with prompting silence. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Then you’ll manage to do it,” The teeth have left his ear behind and are moving down, softly nipping at the small expanse of bare neck that’s exposed in his position before they sink hard into the flesh above his shoulder blade. “Ten.”

The bite pulls more noise from him as his mind attempts to make peace with the idea that he has a timer. He isn’t sure what the fallout of not doing as he’s told would be, but the other hasn’t elaborated.

“Nine.” He continues his fleeting touches, nails scraping down his back. 

“Eight.” George moans as he tries to focus on his prostate, the vibrator pressed tight against it. 

“Seven.” 

A hand runs down his side, and he can’t stop the lewd noise he makes at finally being touched in any meaningful capacity since he’d been tied up. “Six.”

“Five,” His left nipple is pulled on harshly, causing him to yelp and his cock to flex. “You’d better be close, Georgie.”

“What- oh!” He feels himself clench around the toy particularly hard as a stab of pleasure courses through him. “What happens if I’m not- if I don’t come when you want me to?”

Dream withdraws, leaving him aching again. “You’ll be punished, George. That much should have been obvious.” A pause, and then: “Four.”

He’s close, that much is undeniable, but the deadline looming makes him doubt just how close. “Please- please talk to me. Tell me what a mess I am.” His cheeks heat at the words, but he thinks it’ll be enough to nudge him over the edge. 

“Well, aren’t you bold,” Dream chastises. “But I’ll help you out.” He’s leaning back over him again, words like fire as he murmurs directly into his ear. “Just look at you, George. So fucking ruined. You haven’t even been touched, just tied up and whipped and had a toy stuffed in your ass, and you’re still about to come. Three .”

He thinks he’s ready for it, but he’s not, the words pooling heat in the pit of his stomach. 

“So easy, aren’t you? You’re just so ready to fall apart for me: what a pretty show, and I get it all to myself. Like you’re fucking gift wrapped. And when I’m done here, I’m going to use you until I’m beyond satisfied. Maybe I’ll even cum twice since you’re so desperate. Two.”

Having the other so close to him, unable to see him, but able to feel his presence so achingly near yet unreachable, drives him insane. He wants to touch Dream; to reach out, to grasp at him as he comes undone; to feel the blond’s tongue in his mouth; to have his large, calloused hands all over him. 

“You’re such a slut , George,” He bites, and he can almost hear the twisted satisfaction in Dream’s voice. “Are you always like this, or is it all just for me? One.”

He mewls out some lecherous noise at being called a slut: George had no desire to be humiliated, but the blond reducing him to only his desire like that made something violent stir inside of him. That, combined with him being so tantalizingly close to George, finally tips him. “Oh, oh god, oh, fuck , Dream!”

“That’s it, just like that, come for me .”

And he does, as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he’d been told to do. His cock pulses as he dirties the blankets below him with his cum, crying out with broken moans and grateful tears speckling the blindfold. It wasn’t nearly as intense as the last one Dream had given him, but he knows that things aren’t over. Dream hums softly as he comes, chuckling darkly against his ear as he’s undoubtedly sure the other watches him make a mess of himself. He doesn’t reach to turn the toy off, instead letting it continue at its relentless buzz against his prostate, which is rapidly growing oversensitive. 

George groans out, squeezing his eyes as his cock finishes its last tremors and the stimulation inside of him begins to grow painful, causing him to squirm slightly against his bonds. “Nnn, Dream.”

The other responds from further away, likely behind him, if he had to guess. “What is it, baby?” He almost sounds bored, although perhaps that wasn’t quite the word. It sounds like he knows exactly what to have expected, and he’s expecting nothing more. 

“Please, it hurts, I—”

“Do you want to stop?” Dream cuts him off, tone sincere. "Color?" 

George’s nerve endings are starting to send him angry signals and, despite having just come, the cock ring prevents his hard on from really going down. He’s just as stiff as he was two minutes ago, and he feels like he wants more; no, he needs more. “No, green. I don’t want to stop. I just- gentler, please?”

“Fine, but I’m only turning it down a tick. No more.” He concedes and, despite not having touched the little device, George feels it slow to a lesser setting. It must have a remote. 

He lays there, panting from his orgasm and writhing with the sensation flooding him after it in the wake of nonstop stimulation. His ass is still high in the air, chest and face pressed to the mattress, and his arms bound behind him. His back is deeply arched as he settles limply into the position, powerless to stop the abuse he’s willingly putting himself through. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, but he can feel the sparks of arousal simmering just underneath again, waiting for a time to crack through. He just has to be patient and endure the stinging tears building in his eyes. “What—ah, fuck! —what now?”

The first response he gets is a crack of the crop across his right thigh, causing him to yell out at the throbbing sting. The bars etched into his ass haven’t stopped their ache, either. “Hmm, I don’t know. I could just leave you here, make you come a few times, because, I have to be honest, seeing you thrust into empty air like that and get my sheets dirty was pretty fucking hot, George.”

“No, please! Please, touch me, sir.” He can’t stop the jerks of his body as his brain attempts to make sense of all of the signals being sent to it from his hips: all of the confusing, painful, wonderful signals. He still hasn’t quite figured out how to feel. 

Dream hums with consideration again. “Well, you did come right when I told you. I guess you deserve a reward for that.”

George moans out softly at the idea. “Please, yes, I want to be rewarded.” His reward last time had been having his face fucked and, while he would appreciate something more actually tactile, he just wants something . 

“Let me think, what do you deserve?” There’s more contemplative silence, only disturbed by the muffled buzzing coming from inside of him and his wet panting. Seeming to finally decide something, Dream speaks again. “I’m going to give you a good reward, George, but I need to move you for it, okay?”

“Like, to another room, or…?”

“No, no, just need to shift you.” Dream reassures before hands curl around his ribs and at the bend of his knees. 

Dream lifts him up with a steady grip, and the increase in contact makes his head spin. He can feel the press of his bare chest and stomach, and he’s fairly certain that the rest of him is bare, too. Once he’s settled again, it’s on the edge of the bed so that he can sit up. It makes him hyperaware of the aftermath of the riding crop, something as simple as sitting causing it to sting. He’s still blindfolded, and his arms are still tied behind him. It almost feels stranger than being in that embarrassing position earlier: like he’s playing at normalcy. 

The hands he’s been craving leave him, and he’s instantly saddened at the loss. He has no idea what to expect, and Dream only draws it out further, leaving him perched on the bed’s edge for what probably amounts to a few minutes. The toy is buzzing inside of him, overstimulation still wetting his eyes, but it’s fading into a sweeter, duller throb the longer it goes on. The next touch he feels causes him to practically shriek, partially because it startles him, partially because it feels really fucking good , and partially because he’s so sensitive. 

Without warning, Dream’s mouth closes around the head of his sore cock, warm and wet. His hips are stuck between wanting to buck into it and wanting to withdraw, but he nonetheless feels more blood rush southward at the stimulation, regardless of whether or not it actually hurts. “Oh my god, fuck, Dream—”

The blond makes a noise of acknowledgement that only causes vibrations to travel down his shaft. He begins slowly, shallowly bobbing his head up and down as he wets the tip and prepares to sink further. His tongue is rubbing right where he knows a weak spot lies, and it makes him keen. He wants to bury his fingers in Dream’s caramel waves and push him further down, but he can’t; even though he’s so sensitive, he wants to fuck into his mouth but, with his legs and arms tied, he can’t. So, he just has to stick to moaning as he goes through his reward. 

Eventually, Dream moves further down, not pushing himself, as though he has all the time in the world. When George’s dick hits the back of his throat, he chokes at the feeling, the other not even stuttering in his pace. It isn’t long until he feels a nose press into his pelvis, brushing the metal ring there, and he wants to sob. He’s usually the one who’s on the giving end, not the receiving end, and he’s not used to the wet heat that surrounds him. 

“D-Dream, that feels so good, oh my god.” He manages and receives more reward as he voices it. Hands come to rest softly at the top of his thighs and long fingers wrap around his hips, allowing Dream to push and pull him at will. The calloused fingertips are almost comforting after such a long time having to manage with only a piece of glorified plastic. 

George is still far too sensitive for his own good, but he feels his arousal returning as the mouth works him with a casual expertise. He briefly wonders how many people Dream has done this for, but can’t find it in himself to care the longer he does it for George. It’s good enough that when he pulls off to get a breath (he doesn’t gasp, mind you, still the epitome of chilled self-control), George is whining again. 

“Are you liking your reward, Georgie?” He can’t see the other’s face, but his imagination provides a vivid substitute of it: the corners of his eyes wet from taking him so deep, his mouth messy with spit and his precum, blush high on his cheeks and pupils blown. He desperately wishes he could catch a glimpse. 

He nods vigorously, feeling his cock twitch again, even though it’s still sensitive to the touch. The constant pressure against his sweet spot doesn’t help on either front, sending his brain so many sensations it’s almost overwhelming. “Your mouth feels so good.”

Dream laughs softly, and he can feel his breath on his dick. His hands rub circles into his hips in tandem, almost tender despite the fact he’s causing tears to build in George’s eyes. “Well, I do aim to please.” With that, he descends again, quickly taking him to the base. 

George hisses out curses and screws his eyes shut, although it’s not like he’s cutting off any more of his sight than the blindfold already has. In response, Dream intentionally moans around his length, the sweet vibrations it calls briefly aligning with those coming from inside of him. He’s finally passing from oversensitive into just aroused and being sheathed entirely in the other’s throat makes him properly throb. He thinks, distantly, how much he wants to come down Dream’s throat just to feel how he’d react, and wonders what his plans are for George, exactly. 

Unable to do anything to properly touch the blond, he settles for folding in on himself, chest resting atop Dream’s soft hair as he tries to bring him closer. It doesn’t provide any actual relief but being able to feel anything at all against his skin makes his nerves sing. Dream doesn’t stop to move him, letting him desperately try and gain whatever physical touch he can. 

The longer his “reward” goes on, the more George feels pleasure seep into his fingers and toes, crawling ever-closer to its fever-point. “Dream, I think I’m—” 

The blond pops off of his cock with a wet noise at his words, and it twitches in response. “As much as I’d love to see how many times I can make you come, we don’t want to push you too far the first time we do this, hmm?”

George shakes his head and his imagination begins to turn as Dream’s hands reach up to gently stroke his cheeks, which he immediately sinks into. The soft feeling is contrasted with his next words, sharp and hissing. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so rough that you won’t be able to walk straight when you go to work tomorrow morning; so hard that your ass is gonna bruise; so hard that you’ll go hoarse from screaming my name.”

He whimpers, lost for words at the prospect, and he only makes further noises when he’s seized roughly by the waist and flipped back over, face-first into the mattress. It’s rough and callous, no care as to how uncomfortable it makes him. A hand grips the back of his neck, pressing him down further, as he hears Dream shift until he’s behind him. His weight dips the bed as he tugs George further back until his knees are perched on the very edge of it, ankles dangling off the edge. 

“Are you gonna be good for me, George? Keep making those desperate noises while I fuck you until you can’t stand it anymore? Because I will keep going. Until I’m satisfied, even after you’re so overstimulated that it makes you sob.”

George moans out, arching his back to present himself further. “I’ll be good, I promise I will. I want to make you come, please.”

He’s rewarded by sharp fingers gripping his hips as he senses Dream’s long legs frame his own bound ones. He’s so close that it’s maddening, able to feel the heat radiating from the other’s thighs as his hands crawl further down, pressing the toy further inside of him and holding it there. 

“Oh, god—”

It’s good, but it’s not what he wants; and he knows, for a fact, that it isn’t what Dream wants, either. He wants the blond’s cock to split him open again, to reach places that he can’t and satisfy him in ways that are beyond his own ability. George wants to feel him scrape so deep inside of him that he can’t fucking think anymore. 

“Dream, I need more.” He feels his patience wearing thin as he twitches in want.

He receives a harsh slap from Dream’s hand across his ass, lighting the already stung flesh on fire and punching a pained yelp from his lungs. “Don’t tell me what the fuck to do, George. We either do this at my own pace, or we don’t do it at all. Is that fucking clear?”

George swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut as he resigns himself to this torturous limbo. His cock pulses with neglect as tears build in his eyes again from the pain. “I’m sorry sir, please forgive me.”

“Why should I? You’re so fucking impatient, George.” The fingers on his hips go from gripping to scratching along the fragile flesh there, making him gasp out at the sting. It’s not nearly enough to break the skin, and that wasn’t something either of them were comfortable with anyway, but he knows it’ll leave burst capillaries under his skin, marking him for days to come. “How about this, you tell me when this pathetic little toy gets you just on the verge of coming again, and then I’ll finally fill you up, hmm?”

He sobs out, feeling the press of Dream’s weight on the base of his neck as a stern reminder of how not in control he is. “No, please, I can’t take anymore.”

“Are you saying that because it’s actually too much, or because you’re just fucking exasperated? Because you’re impatient, because you’re just insatiable?”

“I—” A shot of electricity runs down his spine as he feels himself nudged closer to another edge. “I need you, Dream, please! I’m begging you.”

The taller tsks , and refuses to move, only digging in his nails into George’s sides as he keeps him in place while his prostate gets constant stimulation. He tries his best to grind back into Dream, knowing that he’s allowed to move this time around, but the other holds his hips steadfast, undoubtedly leaving bruises to replace the ones he’d lost in the past week of time. The thought of seeing himself marked again makes another spike of arousal pulse through him. 

Wayward thumbs press into the marks carved into his ass earlier, spreading pain throughout his nerves and mixing with the sharp pleasure the vibrating toy brought. Dream is so infuriatingly close to him, just out of reach (well, if he had any reach to begin with), and it makes it all the more intense to imagine him, so close yet so far. 

He stays like that, still as marble while George writhes in his hands, hips bucking in desperate attempts to get more friction, stuck between wanting to come and desperately wanting to hold on. To put it like the other already had earlier, he feels like a slut, and he finds that he doesn’t care in the slightest. No one has ever made him feel like this: it’s like he’s been given the go-ahead to completely abandon himself to hedonism. Fuck, why hadn’t he done this sooner?

Suddenly, his walls spasm tightly against the vibrating intrusion, and he moans out. “Oh, god, I’m close. Please, I don’t want to come yet, I don’t—”

“Have you learned your lesson, George? About trying to demand anything from me?” Dream’s voice is shiveringly authoritative, a low growl that makes his eardrums sing. 

“Y-yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ve learned my lesson- ah!” He’s cut off by his own pleasure as he struggles to hold out. “I’ve learned, I promise. Please, I want to come on your cock, I want to make you feel good. Please!”

Dream hums in contemplation and, a moment later, the toy blessedly (or unfortunately) comes to a still inside of him, and he can finally catch his breath. His length pulses at the halt, but he does his best to steady himself, knowing that he can finally have that ache deep in his core soothed. 

The strong grip on his right hip eases, and fingers trace down to softly ghost over the flared base of the toy, pulling just slightly and making George gasp out. “Well, so long as you’ve learned, I guess I can finally use you.” 

He whispers out pleas into the sheets, which spill into moans again as the intrusion is, at last, pulled out. George feels empty all of a sudden, even though the thing hadn’t even been considerable in the size department. With only enough hesitation to get more lube, two of Dream’s long fingers slide into him and immediately begin to scissor him open, scraping against his walls, already slick from earlier and getting slicker as filthy noises fill the air. He digs his nails into the pliant flesh of his arms, grappling for the ropes that encase them in a bid to maintain his fraying sanity while mewling out in some sickeningly lecherous tone that should make him blush. 

“Already crying out like this and we’re only on two fingers. My cock is going to make you scream.” Dream sounds unimaginably full of himself but, the thing is, he’s right: and George just can’t find it in him to hate him for it. 

He makes some noise of affirmation, drowned out by his own gasps as Dream adds a third digit, intentionally targeting his prostate in a cruel bid. “N-no, please, not yet.”

“I have to prep you baby, you know that,” He tuts, petulantly thrusting in and out of him with a casual ease. “I can’t just fuck you open dry. I have limits to my brutality.”

One of those limits obviously isn’t stabbing my fucking switch over and over when I’m right on the verge of coming , he thinks bitterly, and tries to reign in the wild spikes of hormones flooding through his hot blood. He’d be lying if the prospect of being stretched just a little too much a little too soon isn’t appealing in some masochistic way, but he knows that isn’t something he can just casually spring on the other in the middle of scene, especially since, before Dream, it had been a while since he’d regularly been fucked by a man. His body wasn’t in a place for that without risking getting himself hurt. 

So, he does his best to keep himself under control, every touch making his slick length leak further. There’s undoubtedly a building wet spot underneath his hips, sheets already soiled by his cum from earlier and only further ruined by the stream of precum he can feel dripping from him now. “Oh, god.”

Dream laughs darkly behind him and only increases the speed of his motions. “I know you want to come with me inside of you, so you’d better hold on for a few more minutes. You’re still so tight, even after being occupied for the past half hour.”

“It- it’s been half an hour?” No wonder he feels so strung out. 

“Oh, yes,” He purrs, and finally works a final finger into his hole, at long last bringing him close to actually getting fucked. “I never left the room, Georgie: I’ve been watching you ruin yourself like this for thirty whole minutes. What a fucking sight you are.”

George moans, unable to proffer anything else as he does his best to relax so he can reduce how much time he has to wait until that thick cock is back inside of him again. He wants it so badly it almost hurts, and his overly sensitive and throbbing length is actually so hard it hurts. “Please—ruin me more.”

He might have said them out of desperation, but he knows they’re true, and he hears Dream’s breath briefly catch behind him, the words having more of an effect than he bargained for. In response, the fingers are snatched out of him and Dream positively growls . “Be careful what you ask for, doll,” The head of the other’s cock, hot and throbbing—and, dear god, he’s leaking so much, too—presses against him, and he gasps out, so desperate to be filled at long last. “Because I will absolutely shatter you .”

With the dark utterance, Dream pushes in with a bit of force, not stopping to let George adjust until he’s fully bottomed out. The air is forced from his lungs and he’s left, open-mouthed, as he tries to process being full again. It’s so overwhelming and so fucking good.

“Fuck, you’re so big.” The new position this time means the head of Dream’s thick cock drags along his prostate with ease, and it also makes him feel much more like an animal. Even if he wasn’t blindfolded and bound, he’d have much more limited control in this position, Dream able to push and pull his hips so he’s fucked exactly to the other’s liking. 

He laughs again, self-satisfied, and makes George almost lose his breath again when those big hands go to grip George’s bound arms. “Oh, you love the stretch, don’t give me that.”

Without waiting, he pulls almost all the way out, so that only the tip connects them, and then slams back in, force bruising again. George arches in response, still not used to having the other’s cock inside of him, and the stretch burns as he tries to adjust in the middle of the act. Despite the fact it should make his hard-on falter, he instead feels pearls of precum drip from him, the pain fully embedded in the flickering and confused signals from the nerves in his hips, just like last time. 

Dream begins a relentless pace, pulling George onto his cock by the iron grip he has on his bound forearms. It’s insanely hot, all things considered, and, while he hasn’t actually lost his words this time, the sensations render him speechless. Still sensitive, every thrust into him burns into his arousal and he can’t help but moan like a bitch in heat. “Fuck, fuck . Dream—oh my god.”

“Baby, I need to work you open more often. You’re still so fucking tight; it’s hard for me to move.” He punctuates it with a particularly sharp snap of his hips, accompanied by his nails digging into George’s arms: five sweet stabs of pleasure. 

At the pace he’s going at, it isn’t long until George is shoved right back to the very edge the toy had last left him on as punishment. Tears bead in his eyes as he chokes out “I’m close.”

The other snorts, not slowing his movements, instead altering them so that he hits George’s prostate more head-on, making him scream. “I told you: I don’t care if you come. I’m using you until I’m satisfied, whether you’re sobbing or not doesn’t matter to me.”

George’s chest heaves as he tries desperately to keep his orgasm at bay, thinking of stacks of paperwork, or code, or anything boring and the polar opposite of this disgustingly intense arousal coursing through him but, in the end, it does nothing. His breathing grows erratic, spine shaking as he’s handled like an object, his cock completely untouched but still just on the verge of coming. 

In the end, it’s not any decisive act that sends him tipping over, like last time, but simply a build-up that he can’t take anymore. His cries pitch upward, growing louder as his walls start to spasm around the hard length inside of him, washing him in the sweet euphoria of orgasm as incoherence falls from his mouth. It’s sharper than the last one, muscles pulsing more violently (making Dream moan his name behind him—god what a sound) as it’s forced from him, but something is missing. 

He only realizes about halfway through that while he might be coming, he’s twitching into empty air, the satisfaction of spilling cum onto the sheets not present. It’s confusing to him, like a strange tease of the full sensation, and he struggles to both process what’s happening, and to imagine what a full orgasm would have felt like, if the half-baked version felt this good. 

Dream doesn’t relent, thrusts hard and rough, just like he’d promised, and it takes George calling his name hoarsely, question in his tone, for him to ease up. “You okay?” He asks, slowing down his movements until they’re shallower, but not stopping entirely.

“I- I just came but it- I didn’t actually come .” He tries, voice strangled as his sweet spot is brushed, nerves screaming in oversensitivity. 

The blond still doesn’t stop all the way, soft puffs of air leaving his mouth out of exertion. “Well, looks like I’ll be getting three orgasms out of you tonight, Georgie. You just came dry. You can go again.”

At the conclusion, he resumes his aching force, left hand joining his right in impaling George on his cock by pulls on his bound arms. George only sobs out, body beginning to shake as his nerves begin to scream from overstimulation. Each time the head of Dream’s cock drags along his prostate, he feels needles course through him, travelling up to his tip, which is still jerking in vain in the infuriating space between him and the sheets below. Tears further wet the blindfold and he openly lets several shaking sobs fall from him, whimpering more than he is moaning. He wants to stop. Wait, does he want to stop? He wants to feel Dream inside of him, using him, hurting him: that was the entire point of texting him in a haze of aroused desperation. And his dick is still hard, no doubt flushing bright red even after the two separate times he’s reached completion. He can’t leave himself like that.

It fucking hurts, but a sick part of him likes it like that. So, he doesn’t ask to stop. 

Dream’s hands shift from their hold on his forearms to grip his narrow waist, thrusts growing just slightly more erratic. He has to be close, and the beautiful moans and gasps leaking from his full lips only support the idea. “God, listen to you, baby,” He pants out, hold growing tight enough that it hurts. Good, he wants it to bruise. “Does it hurt? But you’re still squeezing me so fucking tight, so you must like it, too. I didn’t realize you were such a pain slut.” 

George does his best to whine out an agreement, overstimulation fighting with the fact he’s getting riled up yet again. He wants to come, properly this time, and he wants to feel Dream’s own scalding release inside of him before he does. “I like it,” He hiccups through the tears, mind reeling as he tries to imagine the face Dream sports behind him, behind the blindfold. “It hurts but I’m so hard again. I want your cum inside of me, please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”

“Good boy, asking so nicely. I’ll give you everything you need and then some. You’re gonna be so full you’ll be leaking for a day.” 

He moans out at the praise and the imagery, every nerve in his body reeling as he writhes beneath the taller. Knowing now what he wants, he intentionally clenches tighter around Dream’s throbbing length, hearing him hiss out in response as he draws closer to his own cliff. 

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come inside you,” Dream murmurs, slamming into him erratically while the edge comes into view. “I love seeing you like this. All mine, desperate on my cock. I’m so glad you went on that ridiculous message board.”

A thrust hits his prostate head-on again, and he legitimately shrieks from the pain of it, muscles seizing as he tries to process it. “I- I am too. No one’s ever fucked me like this. Want you to break me all the time.”

“Fuck,” Dream hisses. “I want to break you, George. Can’t believe I’m the only one who’s done this to you. You look so fucking pretty like this, like you were meant to be wrapped around my cock, meant to take my cum. So good for me, baby.”

“Oh! Dream!” He moans his name at a particularly sharp stab of pleasure that breaks through the haze of pain, and it’s enough to send the other still deep inside of him, holding his hips flush to his own as he paints George’s insides with his white-hot release. 

He fucks himself through it, only sending further sparks of pleasure-pain through the brunet as he takes it, dripping precum again, infuriated after coming dry. 

Eventually, he comes to a stop, breathing hard, and lightens the grip on his hips, thumbs soothing the harshest of the indents absentmindedly. George likes the feeling of just being full like this, and a lightbulb of an idea goes off in his head as he imagines warming the other’s cock for hours on end as he squirms in his lap. The image makes him twitch. 

“How about this,” Dream proffers, still sheathed inside of George and not moving. “I’ll plug you up, so you can go home and think of me for a bit, hmm? You seemed to like that little toy earlier, didn’t you?”

His breath catches at the prospect, of sitting on the train with not only something inside of him, but intentionally keeping the other man’s cum from leaking with it. “P-please.” He feels so unimaginably dirty saying it, his entire face undoubtedly flushing crimson, and it only makes the stinging need he feels heighten. 

The other does as he promised, slowly pulling out and arching George’s back further so that his ass is high in the air, nothing leaking out with him. He clenches around emptiness only briefly, before the silicone slips inside of him again, so much smaller and cooler and deader than Dream’s cock. Nonetheless, he feels himself automatically tighten around it, drawing it in until the base is settled against him again. He moans out at the feeling.

He can’t see Dream, but he can feel him watching him and all of his reactions. Then, he lets out a surprised, yet somehow self-satisfied little hum. “Do you want to come again, baby? You must be frustrated after coming dry last time, aren’t you?”

“Yes, please, sir.” He whispers, all he can summon, but he hopes it’s enough for the other to hear. 

Those big hands are on his hips again, manhandling him in a way that definitely doesn’t make flame roar in the pit of his stomach, until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed again, just like earlier. “Can- can I come in your throat?”

He hears Dream kneel before him, murmuring a low “Of course, baby.” Before his mouth envelops George’s way oversensitive cock again, quickly taking him almost down to the base before bobbing back up.

“Oh, dear god.” He moans out, the wet heat teetering on a line between too much and too good. He knows it won’t take him long to finish like this and, in the end, it doesn’t. 

It’s no more than a minute later that he’s coming, finally coming, again, screaming out Dream’s name and god knows what else as he spills down his throat in jagged pulses that feel so good that they fucking hurt. His vision turns briefly white before he slumps back, falling uncomfortably onto his bound arms as the other releases him from his mouth with a lewd, wet noise. 

There are hands on his thighs, gently stroking over the lattices of knots. “You taste good, you know.”

George heats at the words, unable to summon a response, and Dream simply laughs fondly at him. 

“Want me to untie you now?”

He manages a broken “Yeah.” as he tries to gather himself again. He’s a different kind of worn out from last time, with the impending tears then not threatening him now. His bones feel like gelatin, fucked out and satisfied in a way he hadn’t been able to achieve in the week since he’d been here. God, it felt so damn good, this pleasure-pain haze he was bathing in. 

Dream goes through the motions tenderly, untying each limb as he makes sure none of the rope burns on its way off. Eventually, he sits George up so that he can free his arms, rubbing circles into the marks he already knows are beginning to form. The massaging motion is gentle, sweet, affectionate, and he thinks he might love this contrast of before and after even more than the before by itself.

At long last, he feels deft fingers fiddle with the knot of the blindfold, which falls from his eyes to reveal the painfully gorgeous man regarding him with care. He’s expecting to be blinded, blinking back the contrast, but notices the lights were dimmed, probably just for this. How considerate. 

The corners of Dream’s eyes are pricked with tears, cheeks dusted red from the exertion of taking George deep down his throat, and fuck, if that isn’t one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. “Hi.” He says, simply, looking down at him. 

“Hey yourself,” Dream responds, casual, crooked smile gracing his lips. “You doing okay?”

He nods down at the other man, who’s kneeling before him, large hands coming to rest gingerly on his marked-up thighs. “Yeah, I’m alright. Less dazed than last time I think.”

Dream hums in approval, looking up at him with consideration. “Want me to hold you for a while again?”

He blushes at the question, still embarrassed by his own need for touch, but he nods, looking away meekly. 

The blond joins him on the bed, scooting backward and grabbing George by the waist to gently hoist him with him, until his head and shoulders come into contact with the small mountain of pillows on the bed. Rather than laying on top of him this time, they’re both on their sides, and George buries his head in Dream’s chest, beneath the crook of his chin and his jaw, tightening his hands around the other’s waist like a vice as his legs come to tangle with his. Dream reciprocates, strong arms pulling him close until one hand can bury itself in his hair while the other gently traces down his spine. 

"Hey," Dream calls for him, voice soft and caring. "Just wanna make sure you know I do actually care if you're in real pain or not, alright? I don't want you to ever go past what you're comfortable with. I know I say things about not caring while we're in the middle of it, but I do. It's just that you said that you liked that kind of stuff, but I'd never push—"

George sighs softly, interrupting the more anxious edge the other is taking on. It's definitely not out or resignation or disappointment or even relief, but something else he can't place. "You don't have to tell me that, Dream. I know what I asked for, and you do, too. You take care of me, and you're good about it, really," He squeezes him just a bit tighter. “Sorry if I ruined your blankets.” He mutters into the defined planes of the chest before him, letting his eyes slide shut but fighting the pull of fatigue that’s inevitably chasing him. 

Dream laughs, warm and wheezing, the moment of anxiety left behind after his assurances. “Nothing a quick wash can’t fix, no worries,” His skin is covered in a cooling sheen of sweat, sticky against George’s cheek, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Did I surprise you enough?”

George snorts, attuned to the fading glow of the crop’s marks on his thigh and his ass. “Well, I didn’t know that I could come more than once in a single session, so I’d say I’m pretty surprised.”

Affirmation is mumbled into his mussed hair, glowing with a self-satisfaction that makes him roll his eyes. “Glad I met your expectations.”

“You act like I’m picky. I just wanted you to fuck me.”

“Oh, come on, baby; this is more than you just getting fucked,” He chastises, tone gentle. “You want me to ruin you, not just give you a one-night stand.”

He heats at the words, not feeling brave enough to even try to dispute them. “I do like it when you do that.” George’s voice is small, mumbling as he acknowledges it.

Dream chuckles again, chest rumbling before him. “I know you do; I know. I like it, too.”

There’s a pause as George buries himself in the other’s embrace, enjoying the soft hands on him and the quiet that covers them both. Gradually, his blood cools and his heart rate returns to its normal, sluggish thrum in the interceding silence as the two of them come down together. He knows, eventually, it’ll come to an end and he’ll have to go on his way back to his own empty bed, but he relishes this while he has it.

“You said you were out of town this weekend, right? For business or pleasure?”

“Business, unfortunately,” He groans. “Some conference. I’ll be bored out of my mind the whole time, most likely.”

Dream winces at the prospect, but quickly recovers with a shit-eating grin that clearly drips through to his voice. “Well, anytime you’re bored, alone in some impersonal hotel room, just think of me to pass the time.”

“Oh, fuck off .” George hisses, but there’s no real bite in his words. 

The blond laughs hard, spilling into breathless wheezes as he pulls him closer, curling around the small man in his arms like he owns him, or is charged with protecting him, or something in between. “How about I drive you home? If you’re okay with me knowing your address, obviously. You must be tired, a bit weak-legged too.”

Still tucked under Dream’s chin, he can’t properly turn to respond, but it also gives him cover as his face morphs into content shock. “Oh, that- that would be really nice, actually. Hell of a lot better than taking the train and walking back.” It’s sweet, the way he holds him and offers him the world like this. 

He hums, rumbling deep in his chest, and speaks once more. “Rush hour should have long died down by now, so unless you live really far, it should be a pretty quick ride.”

“I’m not all that far,” He clarifies. “Maybe eleven kilometers or so? What is it you Americans say—probably about seven miles?”

Dream ignores the nationality snipe, but he can practically feel him roll his eyes. “Yeah, that’s not bad at all. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes unless we run into traffic.”

George makes a noise of affirmation, then settles for a while longer, savoring the feeling of calloused fingers stroking the ridges of his spine. “Is this your way of kicking me out?”

He snorts, shoulders shaking from a laugh. “On a normal weeknight, I’d let you stay as long as you want because I certainly don’t mind waking up with a pretty man in my bed, but I’m doing a project with a group in China right now for work, and time differences mean I sometimes have to call with them late at night here.”

“Ouch,” He sympathizes, having to work odd hours as a developer sometimes himself. “Alright, alright, let me go and I’ll find my clothes.”

“Mm, but you are terribly nice to hold.” Dream laments, digging his nose into George’s messy hair and squeezing him tight.

He pushes mockingly against his chest. “Release me, tall man.”

Dream erupts into breathless giggles, and it makes his heart warm as his hold finally relaxes. “Alright, alright. The tall man now releases you.” He can’t even make it through the sentence before he’s wheezing again. 

George rolls his eyes as he sits up, swinging his stinging legs over the side of the bed and standing on trembling muscle. Noticing his sway, large hands come to gently brace his hips, steadying him as he gains his bearings. “Thanks.” He murmurs, scanning the floor for where he’d thrown his jumper and jeans into a needy pile. 

Finally finding them, he takes a few steps and bends down to gather them in his arms, yelping as he feels fingers lightly grip his bruising ass. It aches, but also makes him flush. “Don’t you have clothes to be putting on, too?” He whips around to glare light-hearted daggers at Dream, who now sits perched on the edge of the bed with a look of satisfaction decorating his face.

“Mm, but you have such a gorgeous ass. Can’t help myself, Georgie. I’m only a man.” His golden eyes sparkle with mischief as a lopsided grin spreads over his jaws. 

“You’re only intolerable is what you are.” He mutters, slipping his clothing on as he watches the other deflate with each centimeter of skin he covers back on. 

Dream finally stops examining him, rolling his eyes and drawing himself up to full height so he can rummage through his dresser. The sight makes him gulp, so deprived of the other’s physical appearance the entire night. He was all lean muscle, maybe from swimming or something similar, narrow hips highlighted by sculpted dips in the flesh there. Freckles poured over his shoulders and down his back, gradually fading as his spine turned into his tailbone: a thousand constellations laid by the sun’s own rays. George realizes he could look at him for days. 

If Dream notices his staring, he’s polite enough to not tease him about it, and he’s thankful for that. 

The other dons a pair of slim fitting but not tight jeans, capped off with a sweatshirt whose color he can’t see. He briefly envisions how the same garment would swallow him if he were to ever put it on. He’d always liked it when his girlfriend had done it with his own clothing, and he has little to no doubt that any man he dated would feel the same way about him. 

“As you asked, I’ve put clothes on,” Dream taunts, lightly jabbing him in the ribs. “Mind giving me your address so I can put it in the GPS?”

George complies, rattling off the combination of mostly numbers as the blond grapples for his phone and types it with deft fingers. “Oh,” He says, surprise in his tone. “I actually had a friend who lived around here a few years back.

He quirks an eyebrow. “A friend, or a friend ?” Like us, is the part of sentence he doesn’t include, but it still hangs in the air, tacitly understood. 

“Just a friend. He moved cross-country a year and a half ago, though. He’s the one I’m meeting for dinner tomorrow night, actually.”

“Oh, that must be nice.”

Dream shoots him a thousand-watt smile. “Yeah, it is. It’s been far too long.”

They make their way back downstairs, the other being a perfect gentleman and closing and opening doors for George down to the passenger side door of his own car. It’s a dark gray, nothing flashy, but it’s a well-made thing. The seats are coated in leather, and feel soft against his own bruising rear. He hadn’t been hit in the same place last time, not struggling with the basic act of sitting, but the aftermath makes him wince just slightly. 

Dream notices, and reaches across the console to run a gentle hand along the expanse of one of his thighs, soothing and sweet. “You’ll start bruising up real bad tomorrow, but the ache should be better. Ice it like last time, okay? That should help a bit.”

“Alright,” George confirms, taking a moment of annoying vulnerability to reach down to lace his fingers with Dream’s larger ones, holding his hand in place. “I’ll do that.”

A glance is shot his way, but Dream just smiles softly and says nothing, his thumb stroking the soft knead of his thigh as he turns his eyes to the road and begins to drive him toward home. 

The ride is one spent in easy quiet, the car’s owner clearly comfortable behind the wheel as he drives smoothly, lulling George’s eyes shut while the engine softly hums in the background. Other passersby buzz around them, unknowing strangers on their own islands far outside of their own. It’s peacefully domestic, this, and he lets himself drift into a half-dozing haze in the passenger seat as Dream’s thumb continues its gentle back and forth against his leg. He doesn’t spend long like this, his fading in and out of consciousness shortening the length of their journey, and it seems like hardly a moment before the car is coming to an idling stop in front of his flat building. 

Dream gently nudges his thigh, finally waking him as he blinks in the streetlights above. “Hey, we’re here.”

“Oh,” George says, dumbly, coming back to his waking self after a yawn. “Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”

“It’s fine, no worries,” He laughs, that warm, tired tone that sounds good on him. “I take it as a compliment to my driving skills.”

He stretches in his seat, relishing the feeling of someone else’s touch on him and putting off his inevitable departure. “Am I still coming over next weekend? Like we originally planned?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dream confirms, mischief sliding into his grin once again. “I mean, if you still want me to reapply those marks.”

George swallows, hard and thick, and feels his lungs spark. “Oh, you’re so full of yourself,” He rolls his eyes while the other only chuckles, clearly amused with himself. “But… yeah. I still want that."

“Well then, Georgie, it’s been a pleasure. Wish I could spend longer taking care of you, but I’ll make up for it next time, I promise.” There’s genuine remorse in his voice, and it brings a gentle heat to George’s cheeks. 

He smiles back at him, wishing (not for the first or the last time) he could just press his lips to Dream’s and get lost in it. “I’ll be alright, but I’m absolutely holding you to that.”

Dream responds with another soft grin and triggers the lock on the passenger-side door for him. “Sleep well, George. Have fun at that boring conference of yours.”

“I won’t, but thanks for your well wishes.” He jokes, closing the car door behind him and watching as the blond pulls away from the curb before fading back into the steady stream of humming traffic. Just another stranger lost to the thrum of a city, and George feels just a little more alone than he ought to when he fits the key into his front door.

Notes:

Hehe it’s time for George to experience ~emotions~ now. He didn’t last very long, but really, who can blame him?

Also, quick thank you to the response this got right out the gate! I've been publishing fanfiction for a very long time, but most multichaps I've ever put out tend to have a slow, exponential climb in terms of viewership; THIS, on the other hand, shot up right away, so that's pretty cool! I hope you guys continue to like it as we go on :)

As always, let me know what you think! Come follow me on twitter for updates, etc. Thanks for stopping by!

 

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Chapter 3: Canned Euphoria

Summary:

He’s supposed to wait a week but, alone and suffering on a business trip, George can’t help himself when Dream messages him late at night.

Notes:

Okay I’m aware that the only other work I have on this account is, well… also phone sex. I promise this was not coordinated in any way shape or form lol I just apparently have a one track mind.

Obviously lots of dialogue this time around, so hope that’s alright! Especially at the end, where it’s less filthy and more… sweet ;)

It’s 11:47 at night on a Saturday, and George is hopelessly, listlessly bored. 

Sterile and impersonable paintings hang on the walls of an oppressive Marriott, surrounding him in bland shades that only make the white sheets of his bed feel all the more clinical. 

The day had been a long one, packed to the brim with droning speakers that he was supposed to find engaging but, ultimately, he just found them bad at their jobs. Dinner had been some ridiculous corporate thing, the likes of which he always hated, and he wasn’t in the mood for the overly-structured socialization that was slated to happen afterwards. He’d left the moment he’d put the last bite of mediocre tiramisu in his mouth, and didn’t look forward to repeating it tomorrow. At least it was just these two days. 

So, when his phone softly pings with a message off to his side, he immediately grabs for it and presses the call button. 

It rings for a few moments, the recipient likely surprised at being called, but he eventually picks up. “I didn’t think you’d be busy, but Jesus Christ.” Dream’s voice is deep and mellow through the speaker phone, made so by fatigue, and it washes over his ears in blissful reprieve after hours of whining microphone feedback.

“I’m so fucking bored, oh my god,” George groans. “Please save me from this.”

Dream snorts over the line. “I don’t think I can really be your knight in shining armor here, Georgie. I don’t know how much fun I can be exactly.” 

He drops the phone on his chest, softly thumping against his ribs. “I hope you’ve had a more exciting day than I have.”

“I feel like that’s not a very high bar to hit.”

“It isn’t.” He confirms, causing the other to erupt in soft, tinned laughter that bleeds into the hotel room’s dry air. 

“I mean, it hasn’t exactly been much. Just basic household stuff, you know. I went to the grocery store this morning, took my cat to the vet, stuff like that. It wasn’t exactly thrilling, but it was probably better than whatever you’ve been up to.”

George takes a minute to imagine it, the blond wrangling an anxious feline or agonizing over the ripeness of a shelf of pineapples with scrunched eyebrows. It’s endearing. “Is your cat doing okay?”

“Patches? Yeah, she’s fine: just a check-up,” He clarifies, and George hears shifting on the other line, like he’s also sprawled out in bed. “She’s pretty pissed off at me today though, so I guess if she’s okay depends on your definition of the word. She’s been hiding under my bed for the past four hours.”

He giggles softly into the empty quiet of the hotel room. “My pets were like that growing up, too. Anyway, was there a reason you texted, or are you just trying to ease my corporate hell here?”

Dream scoffs softly, but it’s affectionate. “Mm-hmm, pretty much. I’m not doing anything this late, anyway, so I figured I might as well check in on what you were up to.”

“Well, isn’t that just so considerate of you.”

“I do try.”

Thoughts flicker through his mind, a revolving door of possibilities, and he wonders exactly what line this phone call is toeing. “I was thinking of messaging you, anyway. There’s just nothing here and there’s not even any bullshit on television this late on a Saturday. Absolutely nothing, and it’s infuriating.” He leaves a suggestion hanging in the air, letting the other choose whether or not he wants to take him up on it. 

“Absolutely nothing, huh?” He queries. “I didn’t realize times were that desperate.”

George hums in affirmation, swallowing and letting the other decide what direction to lead him in. 

Dream takes his time, letting him stew in the possibilities of it all. “Well, I was just messaging to chat, but if you wanted more than that… I’d definitely be willing to negotiate.”

“Negotiate?” He asks, words lilting.

He can almost feel Dream’s voice shift before he’s even spoken. “I know we’ve only hooked up twice, but you should know by now that everything is give and take with us, baby.”

A crawl of heat runs down his spine, and he has to remember how to breathe. “What do you need me to give?”

“I’d be happy to keep talking,” He says, tone low and dripping with something that makes him simmer. “And give you what I know you want, but I need you to let me see you.”

George processes the phrase. “Like, on camera?”

“That’s right, doll,” He clarifies. “I’ll take away your boredom, I promise. I just want to see how much I get to you.”

“Do I get to see you too?” He asks, craving the sight of golden skin and a handsome face decorated in pleasure. 

Dream hesitates and hums as he thinks. “I suppose I could do that. You weren’t allowed to see anything last time, after all.”

He’s slightly nervous, never having done anything on camera before like this. The phone, sure, but he hasn't ever been asked to display himself along with it. “I haven’t done this before, Dream… I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ve gone through a few firsts together already, but I obviously won’t push you,” He says, voice softening. “We can just keep talking if you’d be more comfortable with that. My evening’s wide open.”

The reassurances are calming, and it gives him a moment to gather his composure. “No, alright. I want to, just be patient with me. I can- how much of me did you want to see… sir?” George finishes with the title, hoping to entice that gorgeous, domineering persona of Dream’s into commanding him. 

“How about this?” He starts, contemplative and measured. “I just want to see your face, but you can show me as much as you want, alright, doll? And I’ll show you as much as you want me to.”

“I- I want to see all of you,” George admits. “If that’s okay.”

“Miss me that much, Georgie? That’s cute.”

His face heats, but he can’t deny that he craves the sight of the other. 

George looks around the sparse hotel room, evaluating the heights of surfaces and the perches of different lamps. “I can prop my phone up on the desk. Do you… do you want me to strip yet?”

“Hmm, not quite yet,” His voice is dropping again, low and sonorous, even from the shitty speaker on the bottom of his phone. “Just let me see that pretty face of yours.”

He moves from the bed, settling in the desk chair and tapping to switch the call from audio only to FaceTime. It rings for a moment before Dream answers, but his video isn’t on yet. For now, only George is shown on the screen, and it makes him feel self-conscious: a display in the most literal sense of the word. “Is this alright?”

The camera captures from the top of his head down to just below his knees, when he’s sitting in the chair. It should be everything the other wants, frame-wise, and he can’t help but shift slightly under the attention. 

“Perfect for me, baby,” Dream reassures. “You look good in a suit, you know.” 

George doesn’t even get to respond, blush rising on his face before the other breaks into laughter again, but it’s the soft, affectionate sort, nothing cruel or derisive. “No need to be so embarrassed. You know I think you look better tied up and on your knees, though. Guess we’ll have to make do for now, hmm?”

He nods, letting his eyes slide shut at the visuals as he feels his cock begin to stir in interest. “I feel better tied up and on my knees.”

“How about this?” The other murmurs. “You start by undoing that row of buttons, just like you’re unwrapping yourself for me. Nice and slow.”

“Okay.” He whispers, fingers coming to the knot of his tie to carefully undo it, slips of silk untangling until he can pull it from his neck and lay it down on the generic desk surface before him. He starts on the buttons next, undoing the first few at a normal pace. 

“ Slower ,” Dream’s voice crackles from the speaker, and it’s authoritative. “We’re not in person, now; it’s not like stripping quickly’ll get my cock inside of you any faster. Let’s savor, why don’t we?”

George hums out affirmation and slows, fingers running down the hem of the button line languidly in an attempt at being seductive before he reaches the next plastic disc. He continues like this for the rest of the expanse, parting the shirt so that a sliver of his pale skin is exposed, centimeter by centimeter, until he’s brushing against the sparse trail of dark fuzz that just peaks above his waistband. “Do you want me to take this off now?” He asks, suddenly very aware of how alone he is in this hotel room. 

“How does it feel being watched, George?” The other queries back, rather than responding. “Knowing that I’m on the other end, but you can’t see me, can’t be touched by me, hmm?”

He swallows, toying with the hem of his button down. “It’s… frustrating. I want to see you, but it’s kind of alluring knowing that you can still see me .”

“Does it make you hard?” Dream purrs. He doesn’t have to ask that question, because he can see the first stirrings of an answer. “Does it make you feel like you’re just a piece of entertainment for me?”

George flushes, and has to close his eyes to cope with the embarrassment at the feelings rising within him. “It- it does,” He admits, slightly pressing his thighs together that, despite subtle, he knows Dream sees in glowing paint. “I feel like I’m in a store window.”

Dream hums on the other side of the line. “Such a good boy, acting just like I want you to. Go on, take that shirt off now, and let me see the marks I left on you a few days ago.”

“Yes, sir.” He murmurs, shrugging the starched fabric from his shoulders and letting it fall, crumpled, out of the desk chair and to the floor. He shivers as his bare chest is exposed to the open air, feeling his nipples harden in response and his pants grow subtly tighter at the reveal and the anticipation. 

Dream whistles low on the other end. “God, baby, just look at you. I bruised your waist so pretty that you can still see my fingerprints there, can’t you? And you strained so hard against those ropes that your arms turned black and blue. How gorgeous you are.”

He shivers under the praise, breath stuttering visibly. “You should see my ass and the back of my thighs,” George supplies, recalling how he’d lost his words the first time he’d showered after getting home from his last rendezvous with Dream. It had sent such vicious arousal spiking through him that he hadn’t been able to help himself, bending over his sink without an ounce of shame, not even wanting to wait until he got into the tiled cubicle of his shower. “You painted me.”

“Good. I want anyone who sees you to know what you let me do,” The voice is possessive and makes him shudder. “But I don’t want you to show me yet, okay? I want you to close your eyes and do exactly what I say.”

“Okay,” He breathes out, letting his eyes fall shut as he awaits instruction. “Please, tell me what to do.”

Dream exhales over the line, as though he’s preparing himself. “Place both your hands on your shoulders, like you’re about to drag them down your chest.”

He does.

“I want you to do that: from your collarbones down to the bottom of your ribs. Feel each touch and imagine it’s mine instead.”

“But my hands are too small to be yours.” George protests, wishing that he could actually feel the other. 

Dream sucks his teeth, disappointment evident in his voice. “I don’t fucking care. I need you to imagine, George.”

He nods, and does as he’s told. He slowly slides his hands downward, feather-light touches sending gooseflesh across his chest until his fingers catch on his nipples and he gasps, intuitively stopping to continue the stimulation. 

“Keep going. You don’t get to do that yet.” Dream growls through the speaker phone and, with his eyes closed, it creates curling spires of aroused dread in his spine. 

George continues, and he apologizes. “I’m sorry, sir. What do you want me to do now?”

“Do it again,” He answers, emphatic and leaving no room for questioning. “And keep doing it until I say that you can stop.”

His breath catches, but he obeys, letting his fingers skirt his lowest ribs before trailing back up, only for him to repeat the process again, and again, and again. “Dream,” He whines after a time, feeling the sparks in his nerves build up gradually. “Please, tell me what I’m supposed to do now.”

“I want you to pinch yourself, hard. Just like I would if I were there,” He crooned, scratches coming through his dark voice. “Pull on those perfect pink buds of yours until you have tears in your eyes.”

He swallows in anticipation, keeping his eyes shut, and finally touches a part of himself that will send signals to where he wants them. George rolls his nipples between the pads of his fingers, pinching and pulling just like Dream asked. A soft moan finally slips from him: the first of the night. “Feels good, sir.”

Dreams tsks . “We don’t want it to feel good. We want it to hurt, Georgie. Do it harder.” If he strains, he swears that he can hear the soft slide of skin against skin from the other end, and the thought of Dream getting off to him makes his head spin. 

George nods and squeezes hard, wincing at the sensation. He tries to let his mind supply him with images of the other’s broad hands, stroking up his ribs like he owns him, and clamping down with sharp force. He whimpers, keeping his hold as his eyebrows scrunch from the sting. “Is this better? It- it hurts.” Despite it, each tug sends blood rushing southward. 

Dream hums out something close to a moan, if he listens closely. “Keep going. I meant it when I said I wanted to see you cry. I can’t be there to do it myself, so I need you to be a good boy and do it for me.” 

“Yes, sir.” He twists his fingers, savage, and cries out at the sensation. There are two pinpoints of burning on his chest, like someone is holding porcelain glowing with boiling heat there, but he’s straining against his trousers now, glad that he brought another pair because he can feel precum beginning to seep into the fabric. He continues to pull harder and the build-up finally crests into two drops of saltwater slipping from his eyes and trailing down his flushed cheeks.

“So good for me, and you’re just so pretty with tears on your face,” Dream tells him, voice walking a fine line between commanding and reverent. “I wish I was there with you. I’d have you sitting in my lap in that godawful chair, while my hands reached around and did this to you until you were close to sobbing. Do you like that kind of pain, George? You clamped down so fucking tight on me when you were overstimulated and crying from it last time.”

George softly hiccups as he responds. “It hurts, but I like it, sir. I- I wish it was you, wish I could grind down onto your cock and feel your hands on me.” He keeps twisting, eyes closed as he tries to imagine every word Dream utters. He can almost feel strong, corded thighs beneath him as he continues to spread his legs whorishly, letting the other slot between them.

“That’s it, imagine it for me, baby,” Dream’s voice is slipping into darker and darker lust. “Imagine I’m there and tell me what I’m doing to you.”

George gasps softly at the idea, not used to being the one dictating, and begins with embarrassment creeping through his voice. “You- your chest is bare, like mine, and you’re pressed against me, hip to throat,” He starts, flame fanning in his stomach. “I can feel your cock through your clothes and you’re- you’re so hard and you let me grind back against you.”

“So you want me to be generous while I hurt you?”

Tears continue to slide down his face, and his breathing trembles. “Yes, sir. I want you to be everything to me: I want to hate and love all the things you do at the same time. Want to feel you grind against my ass while you keep pinching my nipples and kiss my neck before you bite down. Want you to make me a fucking mess.” The thoughts make his cock weep more.

Dream laughs, low and echoing on the other end of the line. “Oh, baby, it’s just so easy to make you a fucking mess. Look at you now, alone in a hotel room, crying and your cock twitching in your pants while you pull and twist yourself, imagining it’s me.”

“I am; I am so easy. But only for you.” George moans, letting his mind slip into this other space as thoughts of Dream fill his senses. He loves abandoning himself like this, giving over every ounce of power and attention and command that he has to scrape for on a daily basis everywhere else in his life. Now, all he needs to do is submit and, if he focuses hard enough, he can almost feel phantom hands caressing him before they bite, just like he’s supposed to. 

The blond releases some noise of self-satisfaction at the admission, soft and content on the other end of the line as he watches George tease himself relentlessly. “Georgie, baby, do you want me to make you feel good?”

He moans out softly in response. “Please, sir. I- I wish you were here to do it yourself.”

“I know, I know,” Dream soothes, tone conciliatory and almost sweet. “But you have to do it for me tonight, okay?”

George nods, tears continuing to trickle down his face as he keeps up the self-inflicted rough treatment Dream had commanded from him. Each tear also brings a twitch from his cock. 

“You can stop that now.” He instructs, and George lets out a shuddering sigh as the intense sensation comes to a halt: some desperate noise torn between relief and loss. “Do you have any lube with you, baby?”

He thinks for a moment of wiping the tears from face, but he wants to hear Dream call him pretty again, so he lets the salt cool on his flushed skin, which only grows warmer as he answers the question. “I- I do.”

A snicker, low and gravelled, rumbles from across the line. “God, you’re so fucking filthy, George,” His voice glows with a dark chill of self-satisfaction that sends gooseflesh cresting across the back of his neck. “What, were you gonna finger yourself open while you remembered this Thursday?”

George squeezes his eyes shut as he basks in the embarrassing sunlight of a weakness known as desire. 

“Oh, you don’t have to be so embarrassed,” He reassures, viper curl of teasing lying beneath the soothing. “It’s okay if you planned to imagine that your own little fingers were my cock. It’s always good to have an active imagination. I need you to have that same imagination for me tonight, and I also need you to go get that lube.” Dream adds on, and George flares with blush. 

Nonetheless, he nods and moves to stand, the long-exhausted springs of the chair screeching in relief. As he goes to rifle through his small suitcase, he’s seized with a desperate need to take his trousers off, but he knows that Dream hasn’t told him to yet, and he wants to be good. He wants to be good for him. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for, and catches a glimpse of his lower back in the barebones mirror nailed to the wall of the narrow hallway. A stripe of bruising creeps up from below his belt, and the remembrance of what lies beneath the fabric makes his cock tick in need. 

Desperate to address it, he settles back in the chair and holds up the small bottle for Dream, waving it twice to jokingly tell him that he’s acquired it. 

The humor lands and he can practically hear Dream rolling his eyes as he scoffs. “You can set that aside for now. What I want you to do,” He begins, and George listens, rapt, for his command. “Is take your pants off; just those. I want you to do it nice and slow for me, like you’re putting on a show.”

George nods and stands on uncertain legs, nudging the chair away from him on the bland carpet with the back of his calves. He’s not used to teasing like this and feels just the slightest bit self conscious. His hips are narrow and the rest of him is just as slight: flaunting is relatively unfamiliar territory. But, he knows that some part of Dream has to find some part of him attractive, or none of this would be happening, right? You didn’t fuck people you didn’t like; at least, he didn’t think so. 

He rifles through a haze of recollections; out of context video clips and half-baked memories, and tries to imitate what he remembers. Hands rise only so they can drag back down, slowly sketching out the planes of his body as he imagines where he would want Dream to touch him: the slightest swell of the muscle of his chest, the protrusion of the lower edge of his ribs, the dips of his soft stomach. George does his best to subtly sway his hips as he creeps downward, attempting to follow something natural, as though he were only dancing for Dream. Eventually, his fingertips catch on his waistband and he briefly looks up to the camera. Whether for assurance or permission, he can’t be sure. 

Dream still only lives in the inky blackness of a blank screen, hidden out of sight like a teasing thought in the back of his head but, when his buttery voice seeps into the dusted air of George’s hotel room, he sounds like he’s languidly perched on the veneered desk. “I didn’t say you could stop, baby. I told you to strip.”

The words firm his resolve, and he lets his thumbs run beneath the hem of his trousers, brushing sensitive skin that sends bright shivers racing along the pale surface of his torso until they crest over his shoulders and run back down. Slipping his belt from its loops is easy— a single, unhurried motion— and he’s let himself slide into the simmer of the moment to such a degree already that the clank the buckle makes when it drops to the floor is practically jarring. He continues nonetheless, doing his best to overcome any uncertainty he has to look straight to his phone’s camera with an intensity he still isn’t used to feeling. He would much rather imagine that the man he’s trying to gaze through is sitting right before him so, just like Dream had told him, he does his best to let his imagination trample out of his direct control. 

Gliding the stiff fabric of his trousers over his hips and down his thighs in any way other than awkward is just a bit difficult, but he tries to compensate by turning just slightly, letting the purpled expanses on his upper thighs that spill from the hem of his boxers be in full view of the camera. It’s soft, but he can hear Dream quietly take in a quick breath at the sight. 

“I told you that you’d want to see what you did.” George teases, feeling just the slightest bit vindicated now that he managed to get a reaction out of Dream. He knows the snipe won’t go unaddressed and, while it would certainly be much more fun to see how the blond would respond to it if he were physically here, he’s happy to face whatever it is he’s provoked over the phone. 

A noise escapes Dream, something between a disappointed click of his tongue and a ticking growl, and it makes the pull of fabric over George’s still-clothed cock feel so much sweeter. “Watch it,” His voice is low, heavy: it’s a warning. He isn’t sure what actionable consequences that threat could have, but he wants to see. “You misbehave here, and I’ll make sure you walk away next weekend really hurting.”

Part of George throbs at the idea. “Promise?”

“Tempting me is a bad idea, baby.” 

The words send warmth swarming through his body, but he relents and nods. He can push his luck when he can receive his punishment in real time. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Dream laughs softly, abandoning the light-hearted wheeze he usually uses for something more sinister. “Turn around and sit back down so I can see just how much of a mess you are for me.” It isn’t a request, but an order, said with an authoritative chill. Even though they’re separated by distance and a frayed electronic connection, Dream’s voice still holds just as much power as it does when George’s fragile body is directly under his intense gaze. 

He complies and settles back into the dime-a-dozen chair, letting his slim legs fall open so that the notable strain of his cock in his underwear can be easily seen. Dream wants him on display, and he’s good, he is, so of course he does as he demands. Precum dampens the fabric, and he wants to hate how riled up he is so early on, but he can’t find it in himself to truly care. He feels the crimson dusting his cheeks and spreading down to his flushed chest, speckling his skin like a descending fog. “Is this alright, sir?”

A low whistle filters through his speaker. “Look at you, so hard for me already.” George’s eyes flutter shut at the praise. “Such a good boy. Do you want to keep being good for me, George?”

He nods, doing his best to be subtle about tilting his hips just slightly forward so that he can at least get a little bit of friction against his throbbing cock. 

“Words, Georgie: use ‘em.”

“I want to be good for you, I do,” George stammers out, gripping the arms of the chair in a vice as he desperately curbs every impulse that he has to touch himself. “Please, tell me what to do.”

It’s hardly a moment later that a bright chime rings out from his phone, and he lets his eyes slip open before they fully widen at the new sight. Dream is finally on his screen, a tiny imitation of his real self. As it stands, he can only see from about his ribs to his face, but it’s a sight for sore eyes. His golden skin, covered in a smattering of freckled stars, glows against the dark sheets that George has begun to grow familiar with, and the dim lighting that he basks in makes his aureate eyes positively gleam. He looks so beautiful like this, and he still can’t believe that Dream chooses to do this with him , of all the people he could have had wrapped around his finger without even a breath of effort. 

He lets a slight, cocky smirk slide across his slips as he watches George through his own screen. “Since you’re being so good, you get a reward,” He explains and, for a second, George thinks he’s referring to the new visual aid. But, he’s proven wrong with the next sentence. “You’re going to palm yourself through that underwear of yours. You haven’t earned being able to properly touch yourself yet, so this is what you get.”

“What- what do I need to do for you to let me take them off?” He asks, heat flaring in his hips. 

Dream only tilts his head and lets his smirk grow. He looks so fucking cocky and self-assured, knowing damn well what he does to George and taking full advantage of it. Despite that, the expression sends electric signals racing down his nerves. “Put on a good little show for me,” He declares. “And don’t hold back those pretty moans of yours; be as loud as you normally are, and maybe then I’ll let you put that lube to good use.”

George immediately flushes a violent shade of crimson and, without even looking at the small square with his own image on his phone screen, he can tell that it coats him from brow to collar. “D-Dream, I’m in a hotel,” He hisses, somewhere between shock and pleading. “The walls are thin and I- we’re not in your flat. I can’t just be loud here.”

“Why not?” Dream quizzes, face adorned with a look of impatient boredom that he swears is tinged with disappointment. A part of him wilts at the recognition. “What, too embarrassed about how good I make you feel, baby? I’m not asking you to spread your legs on the concierge’s desk, although you’d be gorgeous like that, too. I just need you to sing for me like the lovely little songbird you are.”

“Someone could hear…” He trails off, knowing there’s no other justification for the hot, flickering shame that somehow makes his cock twitch nonetheless. 

Dream sucks his teeth, shaking his head in tandem and leaning back in resignation. “Well then, I guess I can go ahead and hang up. I don’t need you on the phone to take care of my own hard-on.”

George’s eyes widen at the threat. “No, wait, I—” He swallows hard, steeling himself. “I’ll be loud. For you. I promise; I’ll be good, I swear. Please, don’t leave the call.”

“Good boy,” Dream praises, voice like burning silk. “Go on, then, touch yourself, nice and slow. If you go too fast, I’ll stop talking.”

He nods frantically, letting his left hand release its white-knuckled grip on the chair’s padded arm and drift down to the tent in his boxers. George can’t stop the soft moan that falls from his mouth, lighter than the chime of a handbell, when he first makes contact with the fabric. He can feel the heat radiating from his pulsing cock right beneath it, full satisfaction only separated by a thin layer of cotton. It’s infuriating, but he needs to obey, so he does. 

His palm rubs slowly along the hard outline of his shaft, lingering briefly at the head which stickies the fabric, before sliding back down. The pace is painful, and he instinctively starts bucking his hips upwards to increase any friction that he can get. He already expects the scolding the moment he ticks up. 

“Hips down.” Dream growls, and when George manages to open his eyes again to look at the video call, he shivers at the threat in his eyes. 

He complies. “I’m sorry, sir. I-I can’t help it. I need you to pin me down and bruise me.”

Dream cracks for a moment, a low moan slipping from his lips, and the timbre of it sends arousal spiking through George, knowing that he’s the cause. “I can’t be there to put you in your place, or punish you if you aren’t, so I need you to fucking control yourself, okay?” There’s a darkness here that makes him shiver. 

“I’ll try.”

“No trying,” He responds, staring George down with a violent intensity. “You will behave yourself.” Even though there is no way for him to actually take action on any of the lust-filled threat hanging in his voice, he feels like Dream is right there beside him, a python curling around his throat so fucking sweetly. 

He can only nod at first, at a loss for words as Dream lodges himself deep in his brain stem. Eventually, he manages to work his mouth around a proper response. “I will, I promise. Can I- can I please touch myself again?”

“Yes, but remember your rules.”

George immediately resumes his movements, sighing out a moan of relief as he drags fabric across the sensitive flesh of his cock. It’s not nearly enough of a touch, and it frustrates him beyond belief to only have this ghost of sensation, but he needs to be good. The more his own lust builds, the more he wants— no, needs— to hear Dream’s praise. He lets his lips fall open and sound slip out from in between, desperately peeling back every ounce of embarrassment and self-regulation that he has to let the normal amount of sound through. “Is this better?”

“Better,” Dream confirms, and he’s perched on the metaphorical edge of his seat as he anticipates what he’s going to say next. “Such a mess for me, moaning over hardly even touching yourself. Keep going.”

George’s teeth sink into his bottom lip naturally, wishing the pinpricks of pain left behind by the drill of his canines were instead from Dream. Alone in this room, he wants to feel the harsh drags of Dream’s nails along the swell of his hips, or the sweet bite of his ropes anywhere and everywhere. Compared to the times he’d actually been in Dream’s bed, this makes him feel unbearably deprived in so many ways that he grows dizzy from it. Regardless, he fights through the descending haze of arousal and loneliness and continues to draw trembling fingers along his cock, doing his best to create as much friction as he can in a bid for relief. Sound continues to spill from his mouth, although his vocal cords tighten just slightly from his inhibitions. 

He keeps his eyes open, albeit hooded, and watches as Dream watches him, taking in the show he puts on. “There, what pretty noises, George,” He coos, eyes sliding into mischievous slits that glint with a pitch-black lust. “Make sure you keep on making them, and then I’ll let you see some more of me, hmm? Just like you want.” George watches as the camera dips slightly downward, skirting along the top of Dream’s navel but stopping just short of where he wants to see. Such a fucking tease. 

His bottom lip slips free as a slight twist of his wrist glances along just the right spot on his cock, and his spine arches against the back of his chair. “Oh! Dream, please!”

“Please, what?” Dream questions, head tilting languidly despite the evident flush starting to spread across his cheeks as he gets worked up, out of sight. 

George lets out something between a moan and a sob as he tries to increase his pace, despite the fact he knows he’s been told to go slow. “I-I need more. Please, let me have something.”

The other hums in contemplation, watching through the lens as George’s body shudders and arches while he does his best to keep his hips from writhing. “Oh, honey, I’m not just going to give it to you,” He tuts. “You have to earn it, you know that. I’m the one in control here, George, even if I’m not there, and what I need from you is to see you just a little more desperate, baby.”

“But I’m already so desperate,” He whines, struggling to not grind up into his hand. “What- how desperate do you need me to be? Please, I’m begging you.”

Dream laughs at that, acerbic and cruel. “You want to beg, now?” He pries and his voice turns into that low growl that sends heat flaring inside of George’s chest. “Then beg properly.”

He groans out as his cheeks burn. He’s begged before, of course, with Dream stringing him along with his overly capable fingers or his sharp tongue; but, it feels different now that he’s meant to beg to make his own hands move. It’s almost humiliating, but the shame settles pleasantly in his hips somehow. “P-please, sir,” George starts, squeezing his eyes shut to reduce the embarrassment of moaning into an empty room. “I want to imagine you doing more than just barely touching my cock through my clothes. Want to pretend it’s your fingers wrapped around or- or inside of me. Please, I want it, I need it. You make me so desperate and I- I can’t handle it; I need you . Please.” 

Dream makes a noise of consideration as he watches George, who resolutely keeps his eyes closed, lest his resolve break completely. “I love it when you’re honest, George. Alright, then,” He grants, magnanimous. “Take the rest off, and get that little bottle of lube.”

“Oh, thank you; thank you, sir.” He sighs out, immediately lifting his hips and tugging down his boxers with the least amount of sex appeal he thinks he could possibly have. It’s not suave: it’s just desperate, and he’d normally take the time to feel bad about the lack of appeal, but he needs relief. Thankfully for him, ‘desperate’ is just what Dream wants. 

“Knees up,” He orders, appraising him with desire heavy in his eyes. “Hook them over the arms of the chair so you’re nice and spread for me to see.”

George complies immediately, thighs parting so that every sliver of his skin is on display for Dream. His cock is flushed pink and twitching in need, precum starting to slide down the shaft now that he’s no longer confined. The new angle of his legs means that the stripes of bruising on the back of those thighs are both visible to the camera and also pressed against the pads of the chair. The sensation lights sweet pinpricks of pain along his skin and, if he tries hard enough, he can pretend it’s Dream pressing pointed thumbs into the supple flesh there. He moans out and finally slots his eyes back open so that he can see the blond on his phone screen, which he’s now beginning to think is much too small. 

“Am I- please, tell me I’m being good for you.”

Dream smiles, a bit softer and more affectionate than he was expecting. “You are, baby, I promise; and I’ll show you just how much I mean it,” His voice is so low and its timbre is so warm. It’s fucking infuriating how much it makes George’s blood sing. “Go on, get that lube and slick two of your fingers up.”

He quickly snatches the bottle he’d discarded on the desk, popping open the cap with an eager thumb. The liquid is cold on his fingers, desperately needing to be warmed after sitting fallow in the dark of his suitcase for hours, and he rubs it quickly between two of his fingers, just like he’d been asked. George looks back to meet Dream’s gaze, pleading in his eyes. “Please, I need something inside of me.”

“Oh, you’re just so greedy,” Dream chastises, but he can see his chest starting to rising and fall faster as he takes in George’s face, slack with pleasure and wanting. “Go on, just one for now; nice and slow. You know how I do it for you.”

George does know, and he hungers for the other’s long fingers instead of his own, but he lets his eyelids slip shut again and imagine. He teases himself at first, just softly pressing against already burning flesh and letting out noises he knows Dream will appreciate. He wants to keep it up for longer, but his hunger is too much and he slips a slick finger inside of himself at last. “Ah… oh, god.”

His cock flexes hard at the new stimulation as he searches for that one little spot inside of him that will make his nerves buzz. George can hardly remember to keep his hips static, muscles burning with the effort as he can only push for his pleasure instead of seeking it out. “Just like that, baby. Take your sweet time and tell me just how you feel.”

“I—” George gasps out, lips falling open. “My fingers aren’t as long as yours, so it’s not- I can’t make myself feel the way you can. Wish you were here, I- oh!” He interrupts himself as he finally finds his prostate and plasters his head against the back of the office chair. 

Dream recognizes it as George’s moans pitch upward, strangled in his throat from the sweet stab of pleasure. “Second finger, now,” He orders. “Keep pushing right there, even if it starts to feel like too much.”

Getting lost in the charming burn of the stretch, he doesn’t notice that Dream’s camera angle has shifted, much too focused on thrusting slim fingers in and out of himself. Even buried up to the second knuckle, it’s not enough, and he wants to sob out for Dream’s presence. It’s not enough, it’s not fucking enough on his own, not anymore. Like this, he knows that he’ll be perched on a ledge, unable to tip over, and he has the sneaking suspicion that it’s exactly what the other wants.

“There we go,” Dream comments, clearly enjoying his desperation. “Look up, baby. See what you do to me.”

That catches George’s attention and he forces his focus away from his own infuriatingly too light touches and can’t stop the strung-out noise that falls from his mouth once he sees the sight he’s been hungering for since this call first started. There’s flush creeping down Dream’s chest all the way to his thighs, and he’s casually stroking his own leaking length as he observes George like a predator watching prey. He feels a dark shot of satisfaction race through him as he realizes just how much of an effect he has on Dream, who normally makes himself seem so aloof and undisturbed. 

“God, if you were here…” George’s chest shudders as he continues to prod exactly where he needs it. “I’d be on my knees for you.”

Dream is pleased with the admission, a pleased moan leaving his mouth. “Want me to fuck your mouth again? Your throat was so hot and tight around me.”

He nods frantically, recalling the asphyxiating feeling that made his head spin with pleasure. “Oh, please, please… Wish I could taste you.” The visuals swirling through his mind, combined with his own memories send a strong flash of desire through his limbs that makes his pulse throb in his aching cock. 

“Stop, George.”

“Wh-what?”

“I said stop,” Dream commands, although he doesn’t stop the pulls on his own cock. “Stop your fucking fingers.”

George cries out in borderline pain, wanting to come or at least keep dragging himself toward it, but he obeys. As he withdraws his fingers, he feels himself flutter around empty air, whining at the loss. “Please, sir, I’m getting close.”

“Oh, I know,” He laughs, clearly entertained by George’s frustration. “I love seeing you like this: so strung out and desperate for my cock, even though you just can’t have it. I bet you just want to fuck your fingers and wrap your hand around yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, please.” 

Peering through his own haze of desire, he can see that Dream’s hand is starting to move just a touch faster, thumbing the head of his long cock, which is dripping precum now. He can still feel what it’s like splitting him open, and he craves it so badly that it’s hard to put into words. “Why should I let you?”

He can’t stop himself from thrusting shallowly into empty air, but he doesn’t receive punishing words from Dream. “I- I’ll be good for you. I know that you like to see me come undone and I want to make you feel good. I can’t be there to actually do it but I- I can be a good show for you, I promise.”

Dream hums. “Alright. Go on, then,” He says, simple and unadorned while he stares straight through George’s soul. “Do what will make you come, and don’t stop no matter what, okay baby?”

He sobs out in relief and stops for only a moment to slick his other hand with lube before wrapping it around his neglected cock and moaning out, long and low. He resumes his previous pace, thrusting his fingers in and out before pushing in a third, probably a little too early, but the sting makes his length leak. It’s awkward, using his non-dominant hand, but his own desperation definitely smooths the whole thing. 

Pleasure is rolling in waves through his limbs, running rampant and coming to rest in his tingling fingers before turning right back around and coursing through his veins yet again. It hammers against the walls of his arteries as his heart rate keeps on ticking up. The coil in his stomach is tightening, and he’s doing his best to let Dream know, moans spilling from him as freely as they would if he were tied to the blond’s bedposts. He feels sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, desperate to come. “P-please,” He begs, too strung out to care about the high pitch of his voice. “Please talk to me, sir. Your voice, it’s—”

“Oh, I see,” He’s so full of vicious satisfaction that it makes George’s blood sing. “My voice really gets to you, doesn’t it, Georgie? Is it just my voice, or is it the things I say? Is it both? Are you just so overwhelmed with how I tell you the truth about what a slut you are for me, hmm?”

He strokes himself faster, wrenching his eyes open so that he can take in all of Dream as he mirrors his own movements. “It’s- it’s both, sir.”

Dream twists his wrist, taking time to rub just under the head of his cock, and George follows him exactly. When he speaks again, he makes sure to lower the pitch of his voice, and heat races down George’s spine. “I could go on and on about you, baby. All those weeks of messaging, you made yourself seem all cool and collected, but I see now the way that you really are,” He explains, a soft moan following it. “You fucking love this, just abandoning yourself and spreading your legs like the needy little thing you are. So filthy, so desperate for my praise and even more for my cock. I can’t believe you thought you could actually fool me with that little act of yours.”

“You’re- you’re right,” He confesses, a sharp moan spilling from him as he rubs hard against his prostate. “I love spreading my legs for you. You look at me like an animal and I- it makes me so fucking worked up. I- oh!” He’s so close to the edge now, hands frantic but taking too long, and his hold on Dream’s gaze is still steadfast as he lets himself bask in it. 

Dream doesn’t say anything, only taking him in as he starts to fully lose himself to lust. His skin glows with the soft lamplight of his bedroom, and he’s so gorgeous that it makes George’s heart seize more than it ought to. 

He’s about to beg more, to hear something, anything, but he stops dead in his tracks at a disturbance outside. His movements come to a halt, fingers buried inside of him to the hilt and his hand slick with his own precum. “Dream,” He pants, chest heaving. “There’s- there are people talking in the hallway right outside. Someone could hear.”

“Why does that matter?” Dream replies, sinister yet somehow bored. 

“I-I can’t—”

“I told you,” It’s practically a growl, possessive and firm. “Not to stop no matter what. I’ll hang up if you do, George.” 

“No, please, anything but that,” He prays, doing everything he can to convey his desperate desire through the camera. “Please don’t go.”

Dream scoffs in response, still the epitome of self control despite the fact he’s clearly approaching his own edge. “Then keep up the pace you had, and keep on making those beautiful sounds.”

He hesitates, nervous over the proximity of strangers, but he’s much too needy to particularly care for once in his life. Dream, it turns out, is terribly good at making him completely abandon himself; so, he follows his instructions. 

Broken moans fall from his mouth and, despite his best efforts, he can’t keep his eyes open to watch Dream fall apart, and that’s an absolute fucking shame. “Oh, god, I- I’m so close.”

“Good boy. Go on, come for me; do it right with those people outside of your door,” He’s authoritative, harsh edge leaving no possible room for negotiation. “Maybe they’ll hear and think you’re a lucky man, baby, but I know that you’re really just a fucking mess.”

He sobs out desperate noises, his hips writhing as he drives himself down onto his fingers. George instinctively raises his hips up, his thighs pressing hard against the arms of the chair until he softly moans from the sweet pain of it, squeezing against the metal even more tightly until he feels that distinctive swirl of confusion in his nerves: pleasure, pain, and something holy in between. The muted conversation just in the periphery of his ears adds onto it, the fear of being discovered tightening the strings inside of him until finally, finally, they snap. “Oh, Dream, I— Dream!”

He clamps down on his fingers as his cock twitches out his ecstacy, neck arching until his head tips over the back of his chair and he physically can’t look at Dream anymore. Hot white spills over his hand as he strokes himself through it, not caring that some inevitably gets onto the chair or that strangers in the hall could probably hear him ruin himself. 

At the sweet sight of George crying out, draped completely bare over the chair, Dream follows him only a handful of moments later, low moans joining the rest of the noise they make. George is hardly in his own head enough to be fully aware of it, but he hears him, and the sound washes over him like honey. 

Eventually, he comes to a panting stop, withdrawing his hands and collapsing, boneless, where he sits. His head is tilted toward the ceiling, eyes barely open and filled with bright spots of floaters as he regains his bearings. George’s chest shudders and he finally drops his face to look at the man responsible for his new fatigue on his phone. 

Dream wears an easy, blissed-out look, his own release speckling his chest as he takes in his partner. “God, has anyone told you how good you look when you come?”

He wants to be mortified but, swimming in endorphins and the singing affection that comes from finally falling off the cliff, George can only giggle: a bright, clear thing that makes his shoulders shake. He goes to wipe away the tears it causes, cleaning off the streaks of salt left by the pain from earlier, and hears Dream’s soft wheeze join him. It’s gentle and quiet, this saccharine afterglow, and he laments the fact he has to clean himself up instead of Dream clearing away the remnants of his euphoria. “I think I’m going to go take a bath. Want to sort of join me?” 

Dream meets his eyes with raised eyebrows. “Georgie, baby, I don’t think putting your phone in the bathtub is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“I’ll keep you on the counter, you idiot,” He snorts, rolling his eyes and finally unhooking his shaky legs from the chair. “So?”

There’s that affectionate smile again, and it sends a strange flutter racing through George’s chest. “Well, since I can’t hold you like you like, I guess this is what I have to settle for. How can I say no?”

George stands on quaking legs, leaning against the desk for a moment to steady himself. “God, even when you aren’t here, you still leave me fucking shaky.”

“No higher compliment, baby.” Dream smirks, and George briefly covers the pleased face on the phone with his hand as he picks it up and moves to the generic hotel bathroom. 

He takes a moment to figure out the tap and, with a creak, the thunder of rushing water against porcelain fills the cramped room. “Ugh, I’m so sticky ,” George complains as he waits for the bathtub to fill, washing cum and excess lube from his hands so that he wouldn’t immediately filthy the hot water. “Guess it’s still not as bad as the state you normally leave me in.”

Dream scoffs, rolling his eyes from his spot on the counter. “What, you complaining now? You know you love it.” He’s shifted around on his bed, grabbing for tissues on one of the side tables to clean himself up a bit, from his sternum down to his still softening cock. 

Blush rises on his cheeks because, well, Dream is right. He likes it when he ruins him. “You’re such an idiot.”

It sends Dream devolving into squeaking laughter, strained through the speaker phone as he loses his breath. George shakes his head the entire time, climbing into the tub and sinking into softly steaming water while a moan of relief leaves his mouth. As expected, Dream lets out a low whistle. “You’ve got such lovely legs, you know: long and elegant.”

“O-oh,” He blinks awkwardly at the screen as he rests his arms and chin on the ledge of the tub so he can better talk with Dream. “Thanks.”

“Why d’you sound so shocked?” He questions, laying down on his side and settling with a pleased sigh into his blankets. “There’s no way you’re not used to compliments— I just don’t believe that.”

A contemplative silence coats him and his eyebrows knit together as he thinks. “Well, I- I mean, yeah, I’ve been told I look good before.” 

Dream’s face still hasn’t slipped from one of mildly but pleased confusion. “So why the weird hesitancy?”

Truth be told, he isn’t quite sure why Dream’s compliments make him feel more flustered than he ought to. He adores the praise when they’re in bed together, shot through with unbearable lust, and none of that makes his brain waves stutter and half. Maybe it’s because they’re so specific, or maybe it’s something else that he doesn’t want to think about now that they’re out in the open, cooling and sober. “I- I don’t know.”

“Do you like it when I compliment you?” He prods, still careful and patient. 

Biting his lip, he nods, too embarrassed to say it out loud. 

Dream somehow softens more, eyes full of a sweet tenderness that reminds him of the sugary flow of maple syrup. “Well, then, I’ll make sure to do it more often for you,” He’s staring straight into George with an almost unnerving genuineness and intensity. “I don’t mind.”

He still isn’t sure how to respond, but he shoots Dream a thankful look that he seems to get. 

Golden irises still take him in, but he makes no move to talk for a time, the two of them just bathing in comfortable silence as George relaxes into hot water and soothes the tremors in his muscles and the ache between his thighs. Eventually, though, he broaches the quiet, his voice subdued and almost timorous. The overflow of confidence that’s usually present is gone, replaced with legitimate sweetness. “You’re really pretty, George.”

He scoffs softly, rolling his eyes halfway and shaking his head.

“No, no, I mean it,” Dream says, honesty in his words. “You are. Your face, your eyes, your shoulders, all of you. You’re beautiful.”

Well, shit, he’s really being serious, isn’t he? That makes him swallow just a little too hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly against the porcelain edge of the unadorned tub. “Well, I- not nearly as handsome as you are.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“Oh come on, you know that I already think that.” George is still too nervous to meet his gaze. 

Dreams huffs out a reaction. “I appreciate your go at changing the topic, but so long as you keep it in this vein, I’ll just go back to telling you how gorgeous you are, so you should try that again if you want it to stick.”

George appreciates the out he’s been given and takes advantage of it in a desperate bid to abate the scarlet painting his cheeks like wayward splatters of ink. “How was dinner with that friend of yours? You met with him last night, right?”

He nods. “Yeah, it was good. Want me to tell you about it, or are you just asking to be polite?”

“No, I actually want to know,” George shoots back, wondering just how poorly Dream’s pillowtalk with other partners had gone if he had been surprised George asked first about his job, and now about his social life. “I feel like it makes sense to want to know something about the man who fucks me senseless sometimes.”

That gets an honest laugh from Dream, deep from his stomach until it rattles around his chest and bubbles from his lips. “Fair point. We’re childhood friends,” He explains, fondly looking off into the distance as he recalls a time long past. “Known each other since we were… ten? Probably? His name’s Nick, but just like I have this little nickname of mine, I call him Sapnap.”

“How’d you meet?” He asks, adjusting to more comfortably drape himself over the edge of the tub.

“Well, for a long time, we technically… didn’t,” Dream states, brow knitting as he goes to elaborate. “We met on a Minecraft server, of all places, when we were kids. Complete coincidence, and we just got along well enough that it stuck. We ended up going to college near each other, so we met then and spent a lot more time together during those years. We both wound up here after some time apart, and then he moved away again. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other, and he was passing through town for something or other. Dinner and drinks it was.”

George accidentally slips just slightly on the slick porcelain, and a squeak echoes through the bathroom. “Was it good seeing him again? I can’t imagine being so long away from someone who’s been in your life for that many years.” 

Thankfully, Dream doesn’t make fun of the slip and goes on talking, sinking into his pillow with an effortless grace. “I mean, we didn’t get to see each other for so long, so I guess it just kind of feels par for the course at this point,” He laments. “It’s not perfect, but we’re pretty used to it. You know, we talk like this a lot; obviously not naked and a bit fucked out, but you get the gist.” Dream jokes at the end, eyes scrunching shut in the most adorable way. 

George can’t help but join him in his lightheartedness. “Well, I’d hope not.” The sentence raises questions inside of himself that he’s a bit too scared to ask. 

“Of course not,” Dream says, humor still lingering in his voice but fading into something with more gravity. “I just- I know this probably isn’t what you were asking, but I figured I’d tell you anyway. I’m not doing this with anyone else, you know; I’m just focusing on you right now, George. You deserve my undivided attention.”

Fuck. Why did that make his stomach twist in some awful, perfect way? There’s a lot of ways that he could respond: a stupid snipe about being clean, jokes about sentimentality, something actually honest. Instead, he decides for a mixture that doesn’t bely the fact he’s feeling a bit more right now than he’s meant to. He can just blame it on the chemicals flooding his body from coming, anyway, right? That’s all it has to be. “Well, I’m not doing this with anyone else either, so that’s nice to know.”

Dream laughs hard enough at that that he ends up snorting, slapping a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. He finds it hopelessly endearing.

After that, the topics thankfully get lighter and give George’s heart a break from Dream’s assault that he shouldn’t be weak to in the first place. They talk until his bathwater starts to go from hot to just lukewarm, and he starts to slip into a half-dozing stupor as he rests against the smooth edge, Dream’s caramel voice lulling him into rest. George doesn’t even realize that he’s gone until a loud clap rings out from his phone. He blinks hard and takes in his surroundings, the water not feeling all that much cooler than it was when he’d last been fully aware. 

“George, honey, I think you need to get out before you really fall asleep,” Dream speaks soothingly from the phone, voice low in both volume and pitch. “Just dry off and go to bed, alright?”

He’s still slightly out of it, and his inhibitions are just a bit lower than usual. “Mm, you sound so nice. You could just talk me to sleep.”

There’s a soft laugh that filters through the speaker phone. “Come on now, George. Let’s get you to bed. I’d carry you there myself, but I’m just a little bit far away.”

“Alright, alright,” He grumbled, rubbing his eyes and standing on bleary legs as he drains the tub and dries himself off with a threadbare towel, bleached almost beyond saving. “Whatever you say, sir.” 

George is suddenly too tired to even sort through his suitcase for a pair of boxers, yanking back the starched sheets with a good pull of force to dislodge them from the ridiculously tight wrap the hotel maids had done them up with. He slips beneath them completely bare, the rough thread count almost harsh against his skin, which still sings from the afterglow of a good orgasm. 

“There,” He mumbles, smashing his cheek into the pillows. “‘M in bed, just like you asked. Happy?”

His phone is sitting half-buried in the blankets, and he can’t see the overwhelming fondness that decorates Dream’s face because of it, only tufts of golden hair and black sheets visible from his perspective. “I’m always happy when it comes to you, George.” It’s a little too achingly honest, but he’s too sleepy to fully recognize it.

Instead, George just hums and lets his eyes flutter shut. He’s been able to imagine a lot of things in place of Dream tonight, but this is the one that he can’t replicate: his warmth beneath him, his arms around him, his stubble scratching against his cheek. Even though he hasn’t hung up the phone yet, George knows he’s alone in the bed, and wishes, for neither the first nor the last time, that he wasn’t. 

“Goodnight, George,” Dream murmurs tenderly, hardly above a whisper so as not to disturb him. “I hope your tomorrow is better than your today.”

Notes:

Hmmmmm tenderness. It’s the Good Shit, babey!

As always, let me know what you think! Come follow me on twitter for updates and my general bullshit. Thanks for reading!

 

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Chapter 4: As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow

Summary:

There’s a once-in-a-decade wind chill, and Dream and George are certainly pleased with the method they work out to avoid the freeze.

In that warmth, though, lies something new: something bright and unstable, and George isn’t sure yet just how terrified of it he needs to be.

Notes:

I wrote the bulk of this before the ice bath video came out, I swear to god—

(also shakespeare really came through with me for a custom-made chapter title, so shout out to the two gentlemen of verona and my senior year lit teacher for making me read it lol)

and if anyone can spot the obscure 50 shades of grey insult (bc dear god do i despise that sad excuse of a story) you get brownie points

Anyway, the usual stuff: don’t repost, don’t share with CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will be taken down in accordance

They’ve just had a snowstorm: one of those slow-moving, monstrous things that clings to the city skyline for days at a time and paints even the sheerest building faces with swirling patterns of ice. It’s dropped the chill of the winter air to nearly unbearable levels, with any sliver of George’s face that’s exposed to the wind immediately flushing and turning to frozen pink porcelain. At this temperature, it would take him less than ten minutes of exposure to develop frostbite. That being said, he doesn’t necessarily hate it when it’s like this: it has a beauty to it as snowflakes dance above streets that are usually congested beyond repair, dusting the roofs of what few cars remain. He loves this weather, truth be told, but, at the same time, it’s absolutely fucking freezing. Every time he leaves his flat or stands and waits for the train above ground, he desperately has to fight to prevent shivers from breaking out all over his body, even underneath a thick down-lined coat and wraps of woolen scarves. 

It’s these kinds of days that make George want to stay resolutely curled beneath a blanket on his couch, but today he has other, more important matters to attend to that he would much prefer to that. 

Out of all the days for Dream to take his time opening the front gate, though, this is quite literally the worst one he could have possibly chosen to do it on. Between his frozen wait on the train platform, his time inside of a poorly-insulated aluminum tube, and his trek to Dream’s door, he’s trembling as he stands outside of the gate. The wind chill has to be at least somewhere around negative twenty Celsius or perhaps even thirty, and he presses the other’s buzzer several times, hoping that it would get him to move faster. He’s not sure why he’s taking so long to get downstairs but, at this point, he could care less. George just wants to get into his flat so he can thaw his bones, which feel like they are rapidly developing a layer of carbon-laced permafrost. 

After probably four or five minutes, the front door of Dream’s building flies open, revealing the object of his desire, panting from exertion and not even wearing a coat. “Shit, I am so sorry,” He huffs, scrambling to open the gate and protectively pull him inside the foyer which, while not insulated, is better than outside. “You must be freezing. I was on the phone with my mother, and any attempts to get her to hang up were absolutely futile. I couldn’t exactly tell her I had someone waiting outside to fuck me.”

George still shakes from the cold and eagerly follows him up the stairs until he can finally, finally enter his heated flat. He can’t stop the grateful sigh (which, quite frankly, borders on a moan) that leaves his mouth. “It’s- it’s alright. I just really need to warm up.”

The other nods, kneeling to slip off George’s boots before he can even comprehend it, handling his legs with ease and letting George grapple at his shoulders to keep his balance. “Here, let’s get your coat off, too. You’re covered in snow,” He drags down George’s zipper in the least seductive way possible and gently slips the jacket from his shoulders before hanging it up next to the front door on a series of well-worn oaken pegs. A broad hand, glowing with heat, settles against his shoulder to tenderly direct him.“This way; sit on the couch and unfreeze a bit.”

He lets himself be guided to the soft seating and reclines, as if on command, wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his biceps in an attempt to generate heat. It’s hardly a moment later that one of Dream’s strong arms, draped in a knit blanket, reaches for him and pulls his body close to his chest, enveloping him with the rest of the blanket as he presses them together so they’re both beneath it, sharing and trapping body heat. 

“There, baby, this should help,” Dream soothes, pulling him tight so that his warm skin and jumper are entirely pressed against him. “I’ve always been told I’m a pretty good heater.”

George can’t help but laugh at that, snuggling closer and drawing his legs beneath him to condense himself further. “You are quite warm, that’s true.” He huddles close to Dream, eventually wrapping his arms around his waist. He’s not been allowed to touch the taller man in any of their encounters— two of which had his hands, quite literally, tied, and the others occurring with hundreds of miles separating them— and he adores the proximity of his touch. 

Dream tightens his grip, rubbing soft circles along his back in an effort to abate his shivering. “Well, beyond me making you turn to ice outside of my door, how’re you doing?”

He hums in acknowledgement. “I’m pretty alright. I’m definitely a fan of this snow though, despite the cold; it makes everything look so pretty.”

“Mm, not as pretty as you.” Dream shoots back, slightly teasing, but mostly sincere. It makes George blush, and he has a feeling that the reaction was exactly his goal. 

The blanket they’re wrapped in is soft, some sort of pale yellow woven thread, perhaps cotton or some kind of fine wool. It’s not as soft as Dream’s jumper, though, which is undoubtedly cashmere. It practically strokes his cheek where it’s pressed against him, and he can’t help but let his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. 

Dream notices the change, probably feeling his eyelashes against the flesh of his neck as they slip closed. “Falling asleep already?” He says it like a joke, but his posture softens a moment later. “If you’re really tired, we don’t have to do anything tonight. We can just hang out.”

He hums a negation, still shivering slightly. “No, no, I want to. This is just… really nice. Let me enjoy it for a minute.” It’s a moment of weakness that just borders on embarrassing, but Dream, in his kindness, lets him have it without comment. 

He feels a cheek settle atop his own snow-dusted crown and Dream hums in contentment, the quiet hanging comfortably over them in tandem with the blanket. It reminds him of what he’d hungered for after their… steamy phone call last weekend while he wallowed at that ridiculous conference (they’d had another one on Wednesday, too, but that was to think about another time). George can honestly say that was the best part of the entire trip, even if he had been alone throughout all of it. Between that loneliness then and the rushed ending of the last time he’d physically been in Dream’s bed, he’s felt almost deprived as of late. George doesn’t say anything, but the other can still tell, somehow, and starts carding fingers through his hair, scratching softly against his scalp in a way that makes him shiver. He feels like clay in Dream’s hands, collapsing against him as he’s carefully held in steady arms. 

“You don’t have any plans tomorrow morning, right?” He asks, murmuring it right into George’s umber hair. 

He shakes his head against him before settling again, tilting his face upward until he can fully press to his throat, clean-shaven and soft. When Dream hums out an affirmation, he can feel his voice box vibrate on his cheek. 

“Great,” Dream states, with a firm but gentle finality. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise. I told you that last time, didn’t I? I’ll give you everything that you need afterward; it’s not fair that you’ve been deprived the last few times I’ve pulled you apart.”

George can’t hold back the smile that spreads across his lips. “I’d like that.”

Finally, Dream pulls back just slightly, hand slipping to George’s jaw so that he can look at him properly. “Is there anything you want to do tonight?”

George thinks for a few long moments, mentally rifling through their message history and his own personal files of fantasies. His gaze roams around the room absentmindedly as he does so, nothing particular coming to mind, until his eyes light upon a fairly mundane object. It’s one that he’s thought about before in a more carnal capacity, but he’s never had the willingness (or, well, the bravery) to try it, especially not on his own. “I, um, I’ve mentioned candles before, I think.”

Dark blond eyebrows quirk up, a hungry curiosity adorning Dream’s face. “Hot wax, huh?” His own look flicks over to the glass-clad candle perched on one of the side tables in his living room. “You did mention it once I think, really late at night when we were messaging one time. You want to try that?”

His cheeks heat and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth out of embarrassment. He’s getting used to this, but being so open with his wants still makes his heart rate flutter. “Y-yeah,” George confirms. “How does that normally go?”

“I haven’t done it in a little while,” Dream starts, adjusting George in his hold so that they can more easily talk while actually able to see each other. “But we have to go slowly. Just like with anything else that involves pain, everyone has a different tolerance, but we have to be especially careful since burns could be involved. I need you to be real vocal with me the whole time, okay?”

George nods, understanding. “I will. I trust that you won’t hurt me.”

He’s met with a kind smile quirking up the left corner of Dream’s mouth. “Alright, stay here,” He slips from underneath the blanket, leaving George just as warm physically, but a bit chillier inside. “I have no idea where I left those candles, so it’s probably going to take me a few minutes to find everything again, okay? You just stay here and finish warming up, and I’ll come back when I’m ready for you.”

“I mean, there’s- you have like five candles in this room, Dream.”

Dream snorts, incredulous. “No, no: we don’t use those. The wax doesn’t cool fast enough, and odds are you’d get hurt. I have some that burn lower and are safer.”

“Oh,” He says, dumbly, feeling a bit out of his depth. “Alright. I didn’t think of that."

“Well, that’s why I’m here: to think of the things you don’t and make sure you only hurt as much as what feels good.” Dream assures, slipping down the hallway and out of sight, and leaving George to pull the blanket tighter around him. 

The ghost of Dream’s embrace still lingers along with the press of cashmere on his cheek, and it makes his sudden absence easier to swallow. He’s admittedly a bit anxious: this is quite a bit different from the hands of another man or sharp leather crops, and the strangeness of it both terrifies and excites him. George has no idea what sensations to expect. He knows that he isn’t in for the burn of a too-hot pan or shower water that he’s let run too high, but he doesn’t quite know what the alternatives are. 

He can hear Dream ruffling through wherever it is that he keeps all of the things he uses to wonderfully torture George, distant and humming to himself as though he’s just stirring sugar into his tea. He wonders what exactly it is that’s in there, and just how extensive his collection is. He normally lets Dream take the lead in picking what they do, but he wonders just how exactly things would be if he let him take the lead in all of it. That sort of surrender makes heat flicker in his hips. 

While George waits, he lets his eyes slip shut again, finally warmed all the way through. The chill of the city outside is long forgotten in exchange for warm air and a more intense warmth blooming inside of him as he imagines the boiling wax hitting his skin. He can’t stop the soft sigh that slips through his throat and, of course, it’s at that exact moment that Dream chooses to walk back into the living room. 

“Well, you’re already moaning and we haven’t even started yet,” He teases, still dressed and casually leaning against the wall. “Come on, I found everything. Let’s get you ready.”

George slots open his eyelids again, blinking as he stands and stretches, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders as he approaches Dream, who wraps an arm around his waist and guides him back to the bedroom. A box of slim candles lays off to the side atop Dream’s dresser, along with a lighter, a small basin of water, and, of course, bundles of rope. A threadbare sheet lays on top of the comforter— a precaution that hasn’t been taken before, despite that George knows for a fact he’s been responsible for multiple washes of the thing— but, beyond that, nothing looks changed. 

He waits for the command to strip since he’s come to expect it by now, but it doesn’t come, instead replaced with the slide of fingers as they catch on the hem of his jumper and begin to draw up. “Alright?” Dream asks before continuing, leaving his shirt rucked up against his back. 

“Yeah, of course.” George replies, and he lifts his arms to make Dream’s work easier. 

This is new. Dream usually orders him around from the moment they start, even while he’s still prepping George for a scene, but this is… gentle. It’s sweet. Dream’s large hands pull his jumper from him, having to return only a moment later to repeat the process with the thick undershirt he’s worn to ward off the chill. George shivers when he meets the air, even though it’s not cold, and he has the distinct feeling that those goddamn hands are part of the reason for it. 

Those same fingers swoop further down until they can fiddle with the button on his trousers, but they pause, asking for permission. George places his own hands over Dream’s and guides them further, giving him the go-ahead he’s wanted for well over a week now. When the other undoes what fastens his clothes to his body, George finds himself swallowing hard as he feels the spread of Dream’s thighs, fully clothed, press to his bare ass. His breath catches. 

But, the authority George craves finally returns now that the gentility is over. “On the bed, on your stomach for now. I have to get you nice and tied up so you don’t squirm.”

He nods. “Yes, sir.” And does as he’s asked, climbing onto the sheet and lying face-down, tilting his cheek so that he’s not pressed directly into the mattress. Despite this being the third time now that Dream has done this to him, he still hasn’t gotten over the feeling of being appraised, laid out and ready for him, each second filling him with anxious arousal. 

Dream approaches him before sitting right beside his head on the bed, rope in hand as he evaluates the bare man before him. “Hands over your head, wrists together. I’ll bind them, and then restrain you to the headboard, alright?”

“Please, sir,” He lets pleading slip through his voice as he follows his instructions, craving the tight draw of cotton line on his skin. “You’ll tie me up tight?”

“Of course, baby,” Dream responds, looping rope around each of his wrists three or four times before he begins his steady, time-consuming work of tying knots. “Just tight enough to hurt, but not enough that you can’t feel anything, yeah?”

George nods in understanding, already knowing what he’ll say, but he loves hearing it said again as line draws tight against the fragile skin of his wrists. He eagerly awaits until he’s told to pull, craving the feeling of the rope tightening and contracting and chaffing just so slightly, but he knows that he has to wait through the ritual of it all. Curious swirls of arousal begin to gather in his core, and does his best to tamp them down, feeling much too much shame at the idea of getting hot and bothered simply because of touches to his wrists, of all places. Dream would likely tease him relentlessly for it, with both his words, and with tortuous touch. 

Finally, it comes. “Pull.”

He does, and a moan spills from his mouth, unbidden. 

“Good boy,” Dream praises, standing so that he can better secure the knots lifting his wrists to the headboard. “Ankles next, and then I’ll make you burn, alright?”

“Yes, please.” 

Dream’s hands take their time before they reach his ankles, carefully groping his ass and tracing down the dips and curves of his legs with all deliberate slowness and lighting George’s skin bioluminescent with want. He can’t help but arch slightly into the mattress at his touch, eyes fluttering shut as he awaits the new latticework. It takes some time before it comes, Dream dedicating a great deal of his energy to feeling him up until George can no longer deny the blood rushing southward to fill his hardening cock. He groans out an indicator of his wanting, and Dream finally gets to his task in response. 

The little tease was just looking to get a rise out of him. Ugh. 

The ropes on his ankles are tight this time, leaving no room for movement whatsoever, and the restriction almost pulls his body taut across the expanse of the bed. It feels like Dream is stretching a canvas across its frames and, well, he supposes that he is, in a way. He’ll drip George with colored wax until he looks fitting enough to pin to his wall. That definitely wouldn’t be the worst fate in the world. 

“Again.” Dream instructs, and he obeys, hardly able to move them. “Perfect for me. Now,” The blond’s weight lifts from the bed, and he hears him pull his jumper over his head, undoubtedly ruffling his golden hair, before he goes to stand before his dresser. “I’m going to light some of these and mark you up while we wait for them to melt, alright?”

George hums out in contentment. “Do your worst.”

Dream scoffs and, even though he can’t see his face from where he lays on the bed, he can feel his piercing gaze. “You don’t want to say that to me, George,” His words are dark, heavy with lust and possession. “Especially this early on in our… working relationship. You haven’t been doing this long enough for me to truly do my worst. I won’t let myself hurt you.” There isn’t any challenge there: Dream means it when he says it’s off-limits. He’s drawing a hard boundary, and he obviously has no choice but to respect it. 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The other just makes a noise of acknowledgement, knowing that his point has come across yet still telling him that he doesn’t need to be sorry, at least not in that sense of the word. 

Hands come to frame his waist, trailing along his ribs with feather-light touches that make George want to writhe. It’s only a moment later that he feels teeth join them, and he can’t help but moan out as he anticipates Dream leaving bites from his shoulders all the way down his spine, and god only knows where else. Canines drag over the curve of his shoulder before they spread and sink into the flesh between his collarbones and his shoulder blades, biting hard enough to really hurt, but just not quite enough to break skin: the perfect balance. George cries out and tries to arch his back into it, but weight is transferred to Dream’s hands so that his prone body is completely pinned down. At the noise that follows it, the blond snickers softly into his shoulder before continuing, digging his teeth in and dragging so that he’d leave glowing tracks down his skin. 

“Oh!” He can’t restrain himself from reacting to it, eyes just starting to water as sweet stings continue to swarm his senses. “God, Dream, I- harder, please.”

He obliges, mouth savage as he clamps down, littering his back with the violet indents of his teeth and forcing capillaries to burst beneath his skin and pool in sweet red bruises just under the surface when he leaves a litany of hickeys in tandem. It’s not nearly as intense as any of the times he’s been hit, but the ache is sharp and doesn’t take long to start pleasantly throbbing. Dream has traced all the way down one shoulder blade and now lifts away, leaving George trying to chase him, but completely unable to due to the bruising grip on his waist and how he’s been tied. 

George makes a noise of disappointment, wanting. “Please, don’t st— ah!”

His plea is interrupted by an open palm colliding with his ass, just Dream’s hand. It’s not all that hard, but he still recognizes that it’s sharper than the force he’d used their first night together. Dream is growing bolder with him and, although he’s slightly reeling from it, his cock twitches where it’s pressed between his stomach and the sheets. 

“Color?” The blond asks, clearly very much aware of the new strength behind the blow and trying to gauge his comfort level. 

George can feel a handprint already glowing against the curved skin of his ass, and it leaves him gasping, voice breathy and hardly there when he speaks, but the pain fucking sings . “Green. Green, please, again.”

Nails drag lightly over the newly heated flesh, not enough to hurt; just to remind him that it’s there. He doesn’t listen to his request, but George is sure it will come back at some point later in the night when he’s no longer expecting it. “We’re just learning more and more about you, George, aren’t we?” He taunts, rising enough that he can finally see him from the corner of his eye. His leanly muscled chest, dusted with freckles, is a sight for sore eyes. The expression Dream wears is terrifying enough to make his heart race in anticipation. “You were so nervous about punishment when we started talking, but now? Now, you just need it, don’t you? How much do you like it, baby?”

“I- I like it,” He whines out, muscles startling to tremble where he tries to pull on his bonds. “I like the pain. It makes me feel so good. Makes my body so confused.”

The nails smooth out to fingertips, and then a palm, soothing the blow as Dream simply watches him squeeze his eyes shut and softly grind against the mattress. When he speaks again, he doesn’t talk of punishment, but he does talk of pain. “I think at least one of the candles should have melted enough to start. Are you ready? It’s going to be a new kind of pain for you, Georgie.”

“Yes,” He breathes out, trying to envision what the sensation will feel like, although he isn’t exactly sure what that will be. Maybe it will feel like one of the times he’d spilled simmering sauce from an over-microwaved bowl of leftovers, but even that doesn’t sound right. “Please, I want to know what it feels like.”

Dream steps away momentarily and returns, but he doesn’t bring any of the softly glowing candles with him, instead holding an opaque bottle of… something. He can almost sense the disappointment and mild confusion radiating from George’s back and moves to explain. “Just a little bit of oil first. Makes getting all that wax off easier; trust me, you will thank me later.” He laughs, soft and affectionate at the end, before pressing gentle hands to the dips of George’s back, slick with a thin oil that mostly absorbs straight into his skin. 

Having Dream touch him like this feels good, and not just in a lust-ridden way. It’s the kind of sensation that makes him want to close his eyes and drift off to sleep with each careful drag of his fingertips, working oil into his skin with the casual familiarity that he’s begun to develop with George’s body. Holding back the soft sighs of pleasure building behind his teeth is futile, so he lets them pass through with ease, little sounds filling the air that make Dream smile just ever so slightly in appreciation. 

“Such lovely noises,” He comments, dipping low to fully cover his ass and upper thighs before finally withdrawing and returning to the dresser. “Let’s see what you make with this.”

George’s breath catches in anticipation, and he intentionally keeps his eyes shut so that it’s more of a surprise. The blond draws it out, keeping him waiting while he perches just out of sight, a tall candle woven between his long fingers. He draws it out for at least sixty seconds and, by the end of it, George’s chest is shuddering, blood rushing southward with each shake of his ribs. He’s so overly attuned to himself, trembling and eager, that when the first drop lands right on the small of his back, he loses all traces of oxygen from his lungs. 

It isn’t like anything he’s ever felt before: it doesn’t feel like a burn, and the pain is sharp and bright, but incredibly fleeting. It’s a brilliant flash of needles that fades to a sweet sting almost immediately, the wax solidifying before it can trail further down the dip of his spine. His nerves fire on and off in flickering pulses as he reels. Then, just like that, it’s over. 

George breathes out in shallow, quivering puffs, eyes shot wide. He doesn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. 

Dream settles on the floor right in front of him, a look of mild concern on his face. George is overwhelmed enough, swimming in his own head, that it takes him a long moment to recognize the expression. The hand that doesn’t hold the candle reaches out to softly caress his jaw. “George, are you okay? You’re being really quiet, and I need you to talk to me. What’s your color? Do you need to stop?”

He puts the effort into unfuzzing his eyes so that he can see Dream more clearly, but it still takes him a moment to finally gather a response. “Again.”

Gold eyes widen just slightly. “You seem out of it; is it a good ‘out of it’ or do you need a minute?”

“No, it’s good,” George breathes. “More, please , sir.”

Dream seems pleasantly surprised, and stands once more with a final, lingering touch along the stubble of George’s jaw before he leaves his field of view entirely once more. 

The next drops of wax make his back arch and a fog starts to spread through his brain. Three of them in quick succession, splattering along his spine, right in the middle of his lumbar, and he can’t stop the gasps that leave him with each drip of burning wax. 

“You like how it hurts, baby?” One of Dream’s calloused fingers traces over the solidified wax, the skin wildly sensitive— but not burned— underneath. George lets out a choked moan at the feeling. 

It takes him another moment to process the question that’s been asked of him, pushed into a response but a sharp yet gentle squeeze to his waist. “Y-yes, I love it,” George finally answers, eyes fluttering shut as his breath continues to quiver. “It’s not- it isn’t—”

Dream shushes him, soothing the words that he can’t summon himself. “Lift your hips,” He commands. “Let me see how hard you are.”

He does as he’s commanded, which isn’t easy considering the tight draw of the rope tying him to the bedposts. The angle is awkward, and his thighs tremble from it, but he does it because he wants to be good. The new position exposes his cock, throbbing and already leaking onto the sheets. He’s quite frankly surprised Dream hadn’t done anything to restrain him there this time around, but he knows better than to bring it to his attention. 

The man in question darkly laughs at the sight of George on the bed, wobbling from the strange sensations swarming through him. Dream suddenly grasps his flushed cock, giving it several long strokes and causing him to cry out and bead more precum onto his fingers. “O-oh! Sir, please, more, I—”

The touch cruelly stops and he’s forced back down until he’s flush with the bed once more. To make up for the loss, though, he feels the cool bottom of the candle drag along his spine: the hot wax so close and yet so far away. 

It’s torture. 

The next swarm of heat doesn’t come in the form of a handful of drops, but rather a more languid pour, forming a single trail from the bottom of his right shoulder blade toward the low end of his ribs. George’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out, neurons sputtering in a vain attempt to process the new feeling. He feels himself sliding back into that strange place he’d found himself floundering in the first night they’d done this: the world feels like it’s coated in a thick, powdered haze of sugar, time slows and bends as he feel every single cell on the surface of his skin jump from the burning contact, and grateful tears spring into the corners of his eyes as he takes it all in. George thinks that he’s still perfectly able to speak this time, if he puts his mind to it, but he’s starting to feel just the slightest bit loopy as his nervous system sends a steady but gentle thrum of pain responses through his blood. 

More wax falls, Dream silently watching him and gauging his reaction as it does. He’s growing more generous with his pours, and George can feel the burgundy wax accumulating on his back like a tender second skin that pulls just slightly at the peach fuzz beneath it. Every time his lungs expand or contract, the new sheen moves with him in the strangest way. It’s so overwhelming and it’s so fucking good and it’s so unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his life. It’s suddenly just a little bit too much, and the saline in his eyes crests over into thick tears that drip down his cheeks, sticking his eyelashes together as they fall.

Dream notices immediately, and he’s kneeling before him again, taking his face between his hands. “Baby, talk to me. Are you okay?”

“I-it’s—” George starts, struggling to maintain coherent eye contact with the cause of all of these new sensations. “It’s so good .” A soft sob is tacked onto the end of it, but he can’t be sure why. His basic sense is starting to fray. 

“Oh, Georgie,” Dream soothes, wiping the tears from his cheeks and pressing a set of lips to his temple. “You’re going all submissive on me again, aren’t you?”

He nods in his hold, unable to give him anything else.

“You can still talk?”

George takes in a shuddering breath, but he answers. “Yes, sir. ‘S not like last time.” 

Gold meets deep brown and George would have to be blind to not notice the adoration and hunger in Dream’s blown pupils. “You want more, baby?”

“Please.” He gasps out, letting more tears flow as he gives himself completely over to the drowning tide of endorphins and cotton-headed pleasure. 

Dream stands and moves to settle somewhere new, straddling the tops of George’s bare thighs with his own clothed hips so that he has a more permanent position now that he knows the man beneath him is alright. His weight is heavy there, but grounding at the same time to George: it’s nice in more than just a lascivious way. His mind is rapidly plunged back into the gutter, though, when more drops of wax land in a steady line down the shoulder blade Dream hadn’t already marked with his teeth. George cries out, the muscles of his shoulder seizing as the sensations don’t relent. 

Dream continues from his steadfast perch, free hand holding him down by a bony hip so that the skin there will be colored again come morning, just like George likes. His stability there is soothing and a tether to the world as he, quite literally, rains sensation down on the skin below. “Still not too much?”

He desperately shakes his head into the blankets below, pushing back into Dream’s hold. “You- you can do more. Hotter.”

A heavy splash falls directly onto his spine and the moan that leaves his mouth is unabashedly loud and long enough that it breaks at the end. George seeks out friction against the sheets as arousal tears through him, settling deep in his hips, and his whines begin to spiral as he feels Dream’s free hand crawl down until his thumb can dip low enough to brush against him.

“Please.” He sobs out, desperate to heighten the sweet burn of the hot wax by feeling something inside of him. 

Dream continues his ministrations, shocking him with more dips of the candle, closer to his skin now and even more brilliant in their intensity. “God, you’re such a fucking mess,” He comments, withdrawing only briefly to grab lube he’d inevitably left somewhere on the bed. “Lying there, completely at my mercy, and so overwhelmed that you’re slipping right out of the world, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” George whispers, time stretching to molasses around him. “Please, need something inside of me. You’re- you make me so desperate.”

He feels Dream shift a bit downward, moving to settle on George’s mid-thigh as he spreads him just slightly— enough to press slick fingers against him. But, he’s just a tease and resolutely refuses to do anything but rub against sensitive skin. A heavy pool of wax is poured right in the lowest dips of his spine, and George absolutely croons , moans splintering. 

There is no way for him to describe what exactly it is that he’s feeling. Whatever that sensation is, it makes him throb and leak against his stomach, nerves flickering on and off in a dizzying array that makes his head float. George’s skin is far too sensitive for its own good, and every single touch is marked in glowing paint. 

Dream doesn’t help the fact he’s somehow already overstimulated when a long finger slips inside of him at last. It immediately seeks out where he’s weakest, thrusting in and out to stretch him for what’s to come, and George cannot stop himself from writhing, despite his best efforts. 

“Stay still.” Dream growls in response, a long splash of wax delivered low in punishment, across the throbbing remnants of where he’d been hit earlier. 

A strangled noise scrapes from his throat as he desperately stills himself, ignoring everything inside of him that screams at him to drive back against the stimulation. “I- I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

Dream just hums, seemingly tolerant of his apology, but still not forgetting the initial sin. He continues to prep George, dripping wax across the softly pinkened skin every now and then just to make him cry out and twitch in need. By the time the second finger comes, tears of pleasure and overwhelming streak down his face steadily, with only desperate gasps and pleas breaking the silence between them. Dream is usually much more vocal throughout this, but he’s taken to an observant quiet as he closely watches George’s reactions, blurred by the haze of subspace and clawing, frantic need. 

At this point, he’s decorated half of George’s back with singing splatters, dark wax likely standing out against his pale skin like ink. He makes a satisfied noise at the sight when he starts to properly scissor him open. “Look at you, trembling and tight around my fingers because of how good I hurt you. Want me to fuck you now, baby? While you’re all covered in pretty color for me?”

“Yes!” George gains a brief moment of full clarity as he cranes his neck to look back at Dream and beg, who’s gazing at him like he wants to consume him. “Please, need you inside of me, sir. I- I can’t take it anymore.”

Dream adjusts his hold on the candle so that he can stroke his fingers along some of the wax that had trickled down George’s waist in the split second before it solidified, his other hand continuing to stretch him. “Just a little more, George,” He soothes, intentionally crooking his fingers hard against his prostate and making him cry out. “You’re still just so fucking tight.”

George is left breathless while he waits, burying his head into the blankets in an attempt to regain some vague control of himself as he bathes in dilated time and a bone-deep pleasure that’s starting to fill even his marrow. “I’m- I’m as relaxed as I can be.” And that’s true: he feels almost like taffy where he lies. 

“I know, baby,” Dream confirms, thrusting hard and curling to open him up further. “You’re being so good for me.”

Unfortunately, that has the opposite effect when he feels everything inside of him twitch from the praise. He loves it when Dream has pretty words for him, when he calls him good, when he tells him he’s exactly what he needs. George never wants him to stop, but he also desperately needs Dream to fuck him until he really can’t think, and he has to exert what little control over himself that he can. He does everything he can to slow his trembling, gasping breath and succeeds after a time, instead turning to babbling out soft pleas for Dream. 

Finally, with one last pointed rub against his prostate, Dream withdraws and leaves him mewling. “I need to fix the ties around your ankles, and then I’ll fuck you just like you need, baby.”

“Promise?” He misses his talented fingers already, desperate to have something— anything— fill him and make that ache deep inside abate. 

“Of course. You won’t be able to walk straight afterwards.” 

George feels the tight lines of rope that draw his legs out loosen, and it’s hardly a moment later that strong hands grip his hips and raise them so he’s on his knees, like he was last time. The manhandling makes his newly freed cock leak, and there’s no use in keeping back the moans as he meets cool air again. While he waits for Dream to retie him and shed the last of his own clothing, he arches his wax-covered back to further present himself to the blond, hoping to speed up his actions and, therefore, George’s relief. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, and Dream takes his sweet time sorting things out until George is trembling with need again. “Alright, no more wax from here on out.”

He whines at the prospect, looking back at the blond with tears already on his face and anguish in his eyes. “Please, just- just a little more?”

“George, honey, I’m not gonna fuck you with actual fire in my offhand,” He’s dropped the implacable persona, instead looking at him with an amused impatience and humor in his eyes. “I know it feels good, but I need to properly take care of you, okay?”

His words are the correct ones, of course, but George can’t help but wilt slightly, wanting more of those bright flashes of sting. “What about later?”

Dream caves, crooked smile gracing his face. “Alright, I’ll leave one burning for later.” With that, he transfers his weight back onto the mattress so that he can grip George’s hips again and pull him close. 

At the feeling of the younger man’s slick cock pressing against him, he collapses further against the mattress. “Oh- Dream, please.”

Hands tighten against hip bones until they ache, and George naturally bucks against him, seeking friction and release. With his arms still bound above his head, his agency in this position is limited, and he’s at Dream’s mercy, who is happy to keep him waiting and tortured. Granted, it’s what George quite literally signed up for, but he’s so desperate for release at this point, soaked in subspace and lust, that he’s about to go insane. 

“ Please ,” He whispers, shoulders shaking as he holds himself up. “Fuck me, own me, please.”

That seems to finally do the trick, and all the oxygen in him is forced from his lungs as Dream bottoms out with a single punch of a thrust. He leans down and catches sharp teeth on George’s earlobe as he hisses into his ear. “You’re asking for some rough treatment, baby, but I’ll give you what you need.”

George can only softly moan as he adjusts to being so full again, Dream’s fingers nothing like his cock, despite being thoroughly prepped. The feeling makes him loopy. 

After a moment, Dream starts to move, pace immediately savage and unrelenting as his hips snap forward. “Fuck, that’s good,” He sighs out contentedly, nails digging into George’s sensitive flesh. “I love using you.”

Forming words would take too much effort, so he just continues letting ragged breaths and salt water leak from him. George does his best to wrap what he can move of his fingers around the excess rope tying him to the headboard in an effort to hold on as he takes the unrelenting force of Dream’s thrusts. “Ah- oh! God!”

Every movement fills the air with slick noise that’s lewd enough to still make George blush despite quite literally having Dream’s cock inside of him, cold wax coating his back, and bite marks covering his skin more frequently than the blond’s own freckles. 

Dream is clearly searching for exactly the right angle to make him lose his mind— like he always does— the thick head of his cock dragging along his walls in a way that makes him just fucking keen. It doesn’t take him long to thrust directly into George’s prostate, making his vocal cords shred themselves with a broken moan. “There we are,” Dream coos, angling his hips so that he hits it with every single movement. “You want me to own you, baby? How does this feel?”

George feels himself tighten around Dream and his cock jerks hard at the new stimulation. Tears continue to bead into his eyelashes and he chokes on the intense pleasure the other is forcing through his veins. “Fuck, I—” He can’t finish the sentence as another heavy hand collides with the already-bruising skin of his ass. It’s just as hard as the last hit, and all the tension in him immediately snaps, going completely limp in Dream’s hands as he warbles out a feeling he can’t contain inside of him. 

The other’s pace stutters for a moment, clearly making sure that he didn’t hit him too hard but, once he realizes George hasn’t collapsed because of discomfort, but because he’s slipped further into bliss, he resumes his pace. Dream’s thumb presses hard into the sizzling patch of skin he’d just left behind, completely overwhelming him and making him wholly incoherent. 

“God, you’re just a fucking wreck,” Dream’s voice is that low timbre that he so adores, resonating deep in his chest. “Such a slut for what I do to you. I want you to come fast tonight, okay baby?” He halts deep inside of him, nestled right against his prostate as he searches for something. 

George gasps, trying to push back against the unmoving man inside of him. “Nnh, I don’t- I don’t think you have to try very hard to do that, sir.” He feels his cock drip onto the sheets as he says it. He’s close. 

Seeming to have found whatever it is he was looking for, Dream leans down until he covers George’s body with his own, giving him a new, harsher angle to work with that makes the smaller man scream beneath him. 

“Oh, harder, please!” 

Dream listens, moving George’s hips for him since they’ve already long given out and using him as though he were doing nothing more than fucking into his own hand. Each thrust hits his sweet spot straight-on and makes his entire body tremble with arousal, uncontrolled and all-encompassing. 

“Are you close, baby?” Dream purrs, relentlessly grinding into him until he can’t tell where his own hips end and Dream’s start. 

George cranes his head to look behind him, taking in a handsome face decorated with a sheen of sweat as he exerts himself. “I’m- oh, fuck, I’m so close, sir. Please —” 

And he is. He’s dangling directly over an edge, faster than he wants to be there, but he’s there, nonetheless. Dream is making no move to hold him back from coming, not even going so far as to squeeze the base of his cock and buy time. He’s doing everything short of wrapping his fingers around George’s length, and the generosity baffles him just a bit. He’s much too tied up in the chemicals coursing through his blood to dwell on it, though. 

George just hopes that it doesn’t come back to haunt him. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t and, instead, he finds out what Dream had paused to search for before. The blond is huffing softly from the harsh pace he’s kept up, flush painting his freckled cheeks, and the darkly satisfied look in his eyes reveals what he has planned only a second too late. 

A long stripe of burning wax is poured from his shoulder down to his hip, completely without warning and, just like he’d asked, it’s poured from a closer angle. It’s hotter, it makes his nerves scream, and it’s just too much. 

With a pointed thrust deep inside of him, George is coming completely undone, spilling onto the sheets with Dream’s name raggedly pouring from his lips. His vision goes entirely white and his limp body snaps into a taut arc, Dream not slowing at all as he fucks him through it. It takes almost too long to subside— far longer than it usually takes him— leaving him dizzy and overwhelmed in the sweetest possible of ways when his cock finally starts to soften. 

“Good boy,” Dream comments once he’s finished, kissing his wax-draped shoulder with more tenderness than he’s been afforded since he’d been laid down. “Where do you want me to come? Your mouth, in between your thighs?”

George has to fight through the haze of the afterglow that’s starting to join the spaced out continuum he’s been riding for some time now in order to respond. “N-no,” He croaks, voice torn from his cries of ecstasy. “Want it inside.”

That causes Dream to finally stop, bringing the one hand that had held the candle and since discarded it to stroke his tear-stained cheek. “I’ve put you through a lot tonight. I don’t want to overstimulate you, too.”

“Want it,” He repeats, pushing back with the ounce of strength his muscles still have until his spent hips are flush with Dream’s again. “It’s fine; green. Promise.”

The taller man looks at him with hesitancy, searching his eyes for doubts or some sense of obligation, but he finds none. George knows what he wants. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

He nods and tightens around the cock that’s still inside of him, causing Dream to finally moan out and let his eyes flutter shut. Arms reach around his chest to pull him close, more tender and possessive than he had been the rest of the night, until he can feel every centimeter of Dream’s strong chest pressed to his half-ruined back. It makes George’s own eyes slip shut, even as his hips start to tremble from the ache of overstimulation. While he’s still bathed in endorphins and the rush of sex, he’s happy to endure it if it means having Dream inside of him. 

Lips continue to press to George’s neck as Dream pants against him, breath hot on his skin. He doesn’t bite or bruise; it’s only affection as his thrusts start to grow ragged and his hands grow hungry, exploring the untouched planes of George’s chest with a languid awe. It’s much less carnal and more passionate as he chases his own peak, letting himself enjoy George now that he’s taken care of him and given him the rough treatment he so desperately wanted. 

When he finally comes, Dream stammers out a soft moan right into George’s ear as he fills him with his release. Nails gently scratch into his chest when he pulls him close for the final thrusts, causing George to let out a quiet, pleased sigh. He’s aching from overstimulation, but this is so much more than worth it. 

The other takes a minute to get his bearings but, as soon as he does, he presses another kiss to George’s jaw and pulls his back straight once more. “I’m gonna pull out and untie you, alright?”

“Okay.” He mumbles, completely boneless and swimming in euphoria while he waits for Dream. 

It’s the same as it always is: legs first. He can feel Dream’s heart in the pads of his fingers where they meet his ankles to undo the knots. He’s warm and steady despite the fallout of orgasm, and it’s so easy to give himself over to it. 

Dream slides the rope from him in much less time than it takes him to tie it, rubbing his thumbs where the slightest trace of rope burn begins to bloom on George’s skin. The gentle press of lips joins them on occasion until Dream can gently lower his hips to the bed for him, tucking his feet right behind his curled knees. His arms, poised above his head, are next, and he sighs out in relief as his shoulders are finally allowed to relax. George knows that he’ll have a deep ache there in the morning, but it’s worth it. 

The moment Dream is done and returns from setting the ropes off to the side, he gathers George in his arms and sits them up against the headboard where he can properly check in with him. “Hey, are you doing okay?” Dream cards fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and tucks him against his side, slotting his head into the crook of his neck. 

“Mm-hmm,” George hums, sinking into the other as he comes down. “I’ll be sore, but I’m fine. It was… it was really good, Dream.”

He can’t see him, but he can practically feel Dream smile softly. “Are you still floating?”

George nods. “It’s fading, though. I- I think I’ll crash in a minute.” He can feel the endorphins and the hormones rushing through his blood starting to slow down, and his head is gradually clearing. Thankfully, he doesn’t feel like sobbing yet, and he’ll take what he can get. 

“That’s alright. I’ll be right here, baby,” Dream reassures, caressing his skin like he’s handling glass. “Take your time. I’ll get you cleaned up after.”

George didn’t even want to think about how much of a pain getting all of the wax off of his back would be, but dear god he wouldn’t take tonight back for the world. It was like absolutely nothing he’d ever experienced before, and he adored it. 

They sit in quiet for a time, and he just listens to Dream’s heartbeat in his ear where he rests against him as it gradually slows to its normal tick. It’s only a few minutes later that the tremors start. 

George had been in a car crash, once: he and a friend had been badly rear-ended while at a stop in an intersection. Once the police had come and insurance had been contacted, George had taken a taxi home and, the moment he’d walked through his front door, the adrenaline in his veins completely evaporated and he was trembling like a leaf in autumn wind. It feels exactly like that, minus the trauma, of course. 

He clings tighter to Dream as it starts to hit hard, and the other responds by pulling him into his lap so that he can hold him as close as he can. George feels hands carefully avoiding the wax build-up on his back, not wanting to accidentally catch any of it before he’s ready to properly take it off, and they rub soft circles over free skin to soothe him. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to deal with tears after the fact this time, just wait for his body to feter out its confused panic response. It’s a game of patience, and he’s thankful he has an even more patient partner there to help him through it until it fully subsides. 

“There, you’re alright,” Dream murmurs into his hair. “I’ve got you. Are you feeling a bit better?”

George’s fingers catch on the slight ridge of the long scar on Dream’s back, and he traces along it gently. It’s partially a habit, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling particularly adoring after Dream did that to him. “Better, yeah,” He confirms, overall awareness of his sore body coming back to him in waves. The skin on his back feels softly seared, his hips ache, and the bite marks peppering his shoulders throb; then, of course, there’s the fact he can feel cum dripping out of him, but that’s a less permanent matter. “I feel… crusty, though.”

Dream giggles softly in response, just glancing along the final wax stripe he’d laid on George’s torso. “We need to get you to the shower, baby,” He says, adjusting him in his hold so that he can pick him up. “It’s going to take me a little while to get all of this off of you, so I need you to not fall asleep on me, okay?”

“I can do that.” He responds, but it’s slurred with the fatigue that always hits him after a good fuck. Anticipating Dream’s next movements, he hooks his arms over strong shoulders dusted in heavy handfuls of freckles, waiting for him to start sliding from the bed.

It doesn’t take long until Dream swings his legs over the side of the mattress, and fully draws George’s slim body, curled and tired, against him. It only takes another simple movement for Dream to pick him up and carry him across the hall to the bathroom, and it feels like he’s not even trying. God, what that does to him. 

George is deposited onto a ledge in the far corner of the shower, clearly wide enough to be used as seating instead of just a glorified perch for shampoo and conditioner. The tile is freezing on his heated skin, and it sends gooseflesh springing up all over his limbs. 

“Sorry,” Dream says, sincere, as his arms finally leave him. “I’ll turn on the hot water for you, but I need to grab something real quick to help get this wax off, okay?”

He nods, drawing into himself in a mirror of how he’d arrived in Dream’s flat, albeit much more exposed this time. 

He watches the blond step out and fiddle with the tap for a moment before a stream of hot water sprinkles onto his chilled skin, forcing a sigh from his mouth and his eyelids to close. Obviously, the sex felt great— better than great, really— but this? It’s almost heavenly. 

George is left to warm himself as he slumps against the wall, savoring the feeling of the spray and letting the steam cling to his salted skin. Dream’s phantom touch still lingers all over his oversensitive body, handprints etched into him more clearly than the sun of a blistering summer day. He won’t be as bruised as he has been the past two times, but he relishes what he will have, especially the drags of Dream’s canines across the ridges of his shoulders and the lovely violet trails they’ll leave behind come morning. 

He grows lost in his half-dozing state of fantasy, and he doesn’t even notice that Dream has returned until large hands rest carefully on the top of his back, slightly startling him. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Dream apologizes, settling beneath the shower spray right behind him on the ledge. “Tell me how this feels.” 

George feels a strange sensation on the back of his left forearm: a gentle, smooth dragging that reminds him of a very small massage tool. “Kind of nice, actually, if a bit cold.”

Fingers come to tilt his jaw over his shoulder so that he can make eye contact with Dream. He holds up what looks like a butter knife, albeit an old and scratched-up one. “I’m going to use a little more oil, and then you have to be patient with me while I scrape the wax off. It’ll take a while, but then we can do whatever you’d like after, alright?”

“Okay,” He confirms, shooting Dream a soft smile. “I can be patient. I think I'll just want to sleep after, though.”

The blond scoffs softly to himself and shakes his head, but it’s overwhelmingly fond. His golden hair has started getting wet and turning dozens of shades darker; it makes him look a bit different, but not in a bad way. 

George slumps against the tile again, sighing mutedly as he feels oil-slick hands start to lightly rub the solid wax encrusting half of his spine. He isn’t pressing hard, but it still feels like an actual massage: gentle and careful, the touch of a lover. 

“Oh,” He breathes out, leaning back into his touch. “Feels nice.”

Dream doesn’t respond, just continuing his ministrations and starting to hum under his breath while he works. It’s painfully domestic and so saccharine that George can practically feel his teeth rotting in his gums and his neurons turning to strawberry taffy. It continues like that for a few minutes, only Dream’s singing and the shower head interrupting the silence of the bathroom; none of it is uncomfortable in the slightest. Eventually, though, Dream turns to rinse his hands of oil and goes for the small, dull butterknife.

“It was this or a credit card,” Dream explains, wheezing a laugh through it. “And I think this would feel a hell of a lot nicer than a rough plastic strip.” With that, he presses the now-warmed metal to his shoulder blade and starts working off the thickest stripe of wax. 

He’s right: this is much more comfortable than the cut edge of a bank card. It truly feels good, and George lets himself softly moan out the sensation. 

Dream works like that for what probably amounts to a bit more than five minutes, scraping wax from his sensitive skin. None of it is burned since Dream clearly knows how to take care of him safely, but it’s a bit tender to the touch. That could also be because the blunt edge of a blade has been dragging over it for an extended period of time, though. It occasionally pulls on the peach fuzz of his flesh and stings, but it’s nothing the other’s soothing touch can’t take away.

“There,” Dream declares, now just rubbing circles into his back in a way that makes him melt. “I think I got all of it.” 

The whole process has left him drowsy, and he hardly even notices that Dream is moving to do anything else until those long fingers slide through his hair. “Oh—” George sighs out, collapsing against Dream’s chest. “You don’t- you don’t need to do that, Dream.”

The other keeps up his quiet reactions, wheezing a laugh out under his breath while he massages George’s scalp in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “I want to.”

He can’t find it in himself to complain, not when it feels this nice, so he surrenders himself to it entirely. 

Dream finishes shampooing his hair, before conditioning it, too, and moving down to wash the oil and wax residue from the rest of his body with a soap that smells like figs. When the touches reach his hips, though, he feels a flicker of arousal return, and lets out an embarrassed moan. There is no way in hell that he’s actually getting hard so soon after that; just no way. It couldn't have been more than thirty minutes since he last came.

The other notices and, despite what he would’ve thought, Dream doesn’t poke fun at him. Instead, his hands slip lower with feather light touches over wildly oversensitive flesh, tracing down the lines where his thighs and hips meet, and George absolutely chokes when long fingers wrap around his cock, quickly filling again with blood. He falls forward as his brain struggles to process the new sensations, but he’s caught by a steady arm that pulls him back against Dream’s wet chest. “Dream, you must be tired. You don’t have to—”

“I said I’d take care of you, honey,” The other purls, leaning to press open-mouthed kisses against his damp throat. “So, let me take care of you. If you need more, I want to give you more.”

George can’t respond, fighting oversensitivity and sharp pleasure as the other coaxes him back to full hardness. “Oh, Dream, god.” 

He continues to kiss down his throat, nothing but gentility and sweetness. It’s such a violent contrast to the way he normally asks to be treated, and it leaves him breathless. George can’t help but tilt his neck to grant him more access, and lets soft moans and gasps encourage Dream as he twists his wrist. He even lets him buck up into his hand without holding him down or punishing him, or even saying a word in edgewise. Dream just… stays attuned to his every shuddering breath and moves in perfect accordance. He doesn’t ask for anything in return: he just gives and gives and gives until George is trembling again in his hold. 

“Are you gonna come for me again, George?” Dream’s voice is so fucking sultry, right in his ear as lips continue their feathered trail along his carotid. 

It’s hardly taken him any time at all considering how sensitive he already was after having come once, and his second peak is softly cresting in his blood before he even knows it. “Oh, Dream… thank you.” It’s not even a whisper, only a breath shaped by lips, and the gasp that immediately follows leaves him just as his hips stutter. It’s not nearly as intense as the orgasm he’d just had but, as he spills into Dream’s steady hand, he can’t stop the tears that slip from his eyes. They’re of relief, of pleasure, of an overwhelming sense of adoration as Dream treats him with real affection. George’s heart has no business wobbling in his chest like this, and he tries bitterly to suppress it. 

But, it slips through, for just a moment, and he feels just a little bit fucked. 

He’s hardly even fully present in the world when Dream finishes cleaning the two of them up, and he has to be half-dragged into standing again so that he can towel himself off on wobbling legs. “‘M sorry,” He mumbles as he rubs terry cloth through his hair. “Just so tired all of a sudden. You did such a number on me.”

Dream still has a hand supporting his back as they finish up in the bathroom, not even bothering with clothes. He laughs at the comment. “It’s okay. Let’s just go to sleep, alright?”

George nods sleepily, and it’s hardly a moment later that he’s picked up again. In normal circumstances, he’d be indignant about having that done out of the blue, but he melts into this embrace, completely at ease in the other’s arms. He honestly doesn’t think he’s ever felt so physically comfortable with another person before. 

They fall into bed easily and perfectly, absolutely exhausted. Dream’s long body settles under the sheets, adjusting pillows for a brief moment before he starts to arrange George against him. He helps where he can, hooking a leg over the other’s and wrapping his arms around his waist until he’s pressed as close as he possibly can be. Once they both finally stop adjusting, George is bonelessly draped over the blond, and he feels ridiculously content. His brain still swarms with the aftermath of the past couple of hours, submerging him in a sweet, fuzzy cashmere that he shares with Dream. 

“You still alright?” The other asks, the question buried into the crown of George’s head as he’s pulled close. 

He can’t help but softly breathe out a laugh. “I’m more than alright. I feel like I’ve had half a bottle of wine.” George lets himself have a moment of weakness and presses a tender kiss to Dream’s voice box in appreciation. 

The blond’s response is a raucous giggle that rattles around his chest and worms its way into George’s brain like an overly catchy commercial jingle that won’t leave. 

They’re quiet for a time, sharing body heat beneath the sheets as the world continues to freeze outside, separated by only thin panes of glass. Candles and body heat and sex and everything he could possible want on a frigid night. Well, almost everything, but he knows that he’ll just be torturing himself if he thinks very hard about what’s missing.

Dream finally speaks again, just as he’s about to fully pass into unconsciousness, and his voice is so terribly soft that it just about kills him.“Hey, how about this: there’s a bagel shop right around the corner, and I may or may not be out of breakfast food. Want to head down there in the morning?”

He viciously stomps out the moths swarming in his stomach, because he knows it doesn’t mean anything. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And it would be.

It really would be.

Notes:

Wax play was something I was completely unfamiliar with and literally every single page that I looked up always said that the sensation of hot wax was pretty impossible to describe. So, of course, I actually went and patch tested on myself to write this chapter since I completely lack impulse control (only use soy or paraffin candles, hold 18 inches away to start; don’t be stupid). Anyway, turns out all those pages were right: it is absolutely BIZARRE and I could not have described it otherwise— definitely the most hands-on I’ve ever gotten for fanfiction lol.

Hope you enjoyed! I very much had a good time writing the soft stuff in this chapter, and there’ll be more next time around too, so if that’s your thing, worry not: fluff is here to stay, I swear.

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Chapter 5: Something Borrowed

Summary:

Did you know that bagels have been to space? Because George sure does now.

This isn’t a date— nothing of the sort— it’s just a conversation about the lesser known facts of a classic breakfast staple that may or may not end with his head between another man’s thighs.

Notes:

I’ve been getting comments that are quite enthusiastic about the more plot-based elements of this story, so… ask, and you shall receive. Bit of a different chapter, since there isn’t much explicit material in this one (don’t worry, we’re going back full fucking tilt on that next chapter), but the longing? Oh, babey, the Longing.

I also got sent some amazingly wholesome art for this chapter- go and appreciate it please!!

Usual stuff to finish: don’t repost, don’t share to CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will be immediately taken down in accordance.

“George, I have some bad news for you.” 

He’s sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed and struggling to reacquaint himself with the waking world, while Dream kneels on to the ground just off to the side. They’d been awakened by Dream’s cat about fifteen minutes ago, who was hungry for breakfast and very intent on letting her owner know. She’d leapt onto the bed, mewling up a storm right on top of Dream’s chest which was, of course, coincidentally where George also was. He could certainly think of worse ways to wake up, but he also would’ve much preferred the slow traces on his waist that Dream liked to use to get him out of unconsciousness. Apologies pressed into his hair, he’d lost the warmth of the body beneath him while he went to feed her, and had been alone under the sheets since, half-asleep and drowsy but definitely a bit lonelier. 

George’s body has also been better. He can tell his skin isn’t damaged in any way, but it’s sensitive and overly attuned to every drag of the sheets against his back. His hips ache just slightly, admittedly less so than the past evenings he’d spent here, and he can almost call it sweet. It’s evidence of a night well spent, and a singing reminder of Dream.

“What is it?” George’s voice is still slurred by a bone-deep fatigue that invades his senses, his processing moving at three-quarters speed, as though he were submerged in heady molasses. He’s always like this in the mornings, but the overwhelming experience from last night seems to only make him drown further in the feeling. 

Neither of them are wearing any clothes yet, bright morning sunlight slatting through the blinds to slice across their skin in ivory bands of frigid glow: a warbling internment of winter plasma. The cool temperature of the light looks almost off putting on Dream’s warm skin as he passes through the static and settles next to George, not bothering to slide beneath the blankets again. His warm palms land heavily on George’s shoulders, his thumbs sweeping across the lines of his collarbones in a reassuring gesture. The look he sports makes a slim spike of worry spear his stomach for a second. “I got wax on your sweater.”

George blinks at him for a moment. “That’s all? I thought you were going to say you lit something on fire.”

That makes Dream double over in sleepy laughter the moment he joins George fully on the bed again, legs folding beneath him. That beautiful sound spills forth like a bright spring. “I might be clumsy, but I’m not that clumsy.”

He can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, shaking his head in resignation while leaning against Dream to seek out his presence, who immediately opens his arms with an easy casualty. Despite not wearing anything, his skin thrums with a gentle warmth that seeps through to George’s bones. He feels wonderful, especially when he’s still so drowsy. “If it wasn’t so goddamn cold right now, I’d be fine heading back with just the shirt I had underneath, but could I borrow something? Just for today? I’ll bring it back next time.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dream responds without a moment of hesitation, and hands slide down his bare waist as though he’s being measured. He’s slim enough that Dream’s long fingers are able to wrap around most of him. “Unfortunately, I think you’ll swim in most of what I own; you’re really narrow. If you’re alright with that, then feel free to just take something from my dresser: that’s where I keep the heavier sweaters.”

George hums out his thanks but doesn’t move, still drowsy where he leans into the crook of Dream’s broad shoulder.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Dream softly queries, resting a hand on top of his head in a soothing gesture that doesn’t help him stay awake. “You still seem exhausted, doll.”

He is still tired, but George isn’t blind to the fact that the sun is starting to climb high in the sky. The day is starting to whittle away and, considering how little daylight they have this time of year, he knows that it’s foolish to waste any of it. “No, no, it’s alright,” He decides, taking in a deep breath and stretching just slightly. “I’ll snap out of it once I get outside.”

“I think this cold could probably snap someone out of a coma.” Dream comments, setting his chin on top of George’s head as though it’s a conveniently placed shelf. 

George scoffs, wiggling out from under his grasp. “I’ve never been more glad to be getting food with someone who owns a car.”

“I’m not dealing with parking when it’s that close by. We’re just gonna walk.” He can feel Dream ogling his slim figure as he goes to rifle through the contents of the other’s dresser; not that he minds, of course. He would be an unabashed hypocrite if he did. 

“And I’m not dealing with this cold.”

“George, you literally passed it on your walk from the station. It’s two blocks at most.” He calls from behind him, humorously bemused. 

The first drawer he tries is underwear and socks. Not what he wants, although he knows now that Dream prefers black. “Dream,” He replies, sarcastically imitating him. “You literally can get frostbite right now.”

“Bah, what’s a little cold?” He immediately snipes, but he’s not truly annoyed. “Are you insulting the quality of my sweaters?”

The next drawer is a chaotic mess of half-folded t-shirts, many of which are in colors he can’t even see. George slides it shut and moves on to the row beneath. “Fuck’s sake: fine. I’m still going to be pissed off about it, though.”

Dream scoffs from behind him. “I think I can live with that.” He doesn’t look, but he can hear the bed springs creak as the taller gets up again to get dressed with him. His presence settles just to his left as he rifles through his drawers, comforting and steady. “I have some pretty easy ways to get you to forgive me.”

It makes George flush as he goes through a revolving folio of what those ways might entail. “Oh, my god, you’re such an idiot.” Bingo: he’s finally found the drawer of jumpers. It’s significantly neater than the preceding selections, with two rows of carefully folded knits presented before him. 

Out of nowhere, warm fingers light along the side of his neck. “I… am going to go ahead and recommend you go for a turtleneck,” They linger for a few moments, tracing over the bruised remains of teeth and reminders of temporary ownership that Dream had left on his body last night. 

He rolls his eyes but lets a flattered blush dust across his cheeks. “How much damage did you do?”

“Um…” He trails off, hands sliding down in tandem with gentility as they draw invisible lines down his back. It makes him shiver in the best of ways. “Good news is, the wax didn’t leave even any redness, let alone a burn anywhere. I bruised your hips again, and then there’s my teeth obviously, but that’s all well beneath ninety percent of shirt collars. You should be fine this time.”

“Well, aren’t you just getting more considerate?” George, however, would be lying if he said that he didn’t like hickeys trailing up far too high on his neck. “But, turtleneck it is.”

They take their time getting dressed, exchanging small talk and asinine little stories while George’s painted skin is covered up, piece by piece. The jumper that he chooses is an oatmeal-hued turtleneck— probably alpaca, if he had to guess— that only swallows him, instead of drowning him entirely. The ribbed collar is high enough to cover the evidence Dream had left on the pale skin of his throat, although a part of him is tempted to parade around the city with it exposed instead. He takes a moment to roll up the sleeves and ruck up part of the hem until he can tuck it into the hem of his jeans; it winds up still looking abnormally large on his slight frame, but he’s alright with it. George feels nice like this: overwhelmingly comfortable, and it doesn’t hurt that Dream’s cologne still lingers on the wool. 

He can feel the blond sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye at George, slightly flushed. He’s not used to seeing Dream flustered at all, and the other clearly isn’t used to it either, if his anxious silence is anything to go by. 

“So!” He breaks the quiet, softly clapping his hands together. “It’s literally just around the corner, and I’ll pay, so just go get your shoes and your coat, and we can head out.”

George yawns, stretching his shoulders as he nods and walks through the bedroom door frame, passing the trinkets and signs of life that litter Dream’s flat. It’s odd, being in someone else’s personal space like this, over and over again, when he still knows relatively little about the occupant. This isn’t any kind of date, because they aren’t dating by any means, but maybe this will help him get to learn something more about Dream. 

Once they’ve both bundled themselves up— Dream going so far as to loop a scarf around his neck for him— he’s ushered out of the flat and into the freeze once more. George makes sure to leave something behind, though, letting himself indulge in a slightly devious, if wildly self-indulgent, plan. 

“Fuck, it’s cold.” He can’t help but shiver immediately once he hits the polar air, taking several long moments just beyond Dream’s front gate to do what he can to adjust. He can almost feel the exposed slivers of his cheeks and eyes begin to form crystalline frost beneath the surface. George desperately wants to have himself wound in the other’s hold, but they’re in public now.

Dream takes it even harder than he does, wrapped in at least two scarves and a thick merino hat. “Sure is. You know, every winter here, I keep thinking I’ll become less of a Floridian, but it just never gets better.”

He tilts his head up to look at the other. “Oh, I didn’t know you were from Florida.”

“Yeah,” Dream confirms, gently touching the back of his arm to direct him toward the bagel shop. “Grew up in very hot weather and very mild winters. You’re probably a bit more used to this kind of temperature than I am.”

He falls in line at Dream’s side while they walk through the morning air, the trickle of early Saturday traffic just off to their left beyond the safety of the sidewalk. The arctic has come to visit, and he was right in thinking that it would shake every last ounce of sex-induced fatigued from his bones because he suddenly feels like he’s had a pot of espresso. “I mean, I don’t think I ever felt this kind of cold back in England. It’s just uniquely bad on your side of the pond.”

Dream wheezes out a laugh. “We do tend to have some more extreme weather,” He admits, about to launch into some tale or other about a childhood hurricane. But, he stops. “Oh, here we are.”

A plate glass door is opened for George— the blond is forever a perfect gentleman— to reveal a small shop, well-populated and humming with life. It looks like a thousand other small, family-run bakeries, but the softly wafting scent from behind the counter immediately sets it apart. 

The walls are exposed brick: old and natural, not purposefully stripped back for the sake of modernity or an endlessly shifting cycle of trends. Tables are worn and dinged-up after god only knows how many decades of service, resting atop tile floors that are equally as scuffed. At first blush, it might make the dining room look neglected or simply exhausted but, the more of it that he takes in, the more it reveals a beautifully well-loved place that its employees clearly could call home.  

“I actually got my very first meal when I moved here from this place,” Dream explains, fond and reminiscent. He has a sugary look in his eyes that makes the golden expanses even more woefully endearing. “And it hasn’t failed me yet, so hopefully you like it.” He still sounds a bit bashful, as though he really values George’s opinion.

“I mean, bagels are bagels in my book,” He japes, boxing him lightly in the arm to help abate the inexplicable nervousness he can feel radiating from the other. “I’m sure I’ll like it.”

The sudden awkwardness out of the way, they place their orders and Dream scoots into a small booth in the corner, patting the space next to him so that George can settle right at his side. He makes sure to leave a healthy twenty centimeters between them now; they aren’t in the bedroom anymore, and any intimacy between them no longer exists. 

Despite the fact that he knows it isn’t a date, he still feels those skittering butterflies in his stomach that always accompany first ones. He has no idea why, and is annoyed at himself for it. This is literally no different than getting breakfast with a friend; Dream is just a friend that happens to fuck him half out of his mind every now and then. Only a minor discrepancy, really. 

“Hey, did you know that bagels have actually been to space?” Dream asks, pretty much out of nowhere. 

He blinks back at him for a moment, processing. “I’m sorry?”

“Bagels have been to outer space,” He repeats, as though just talking about the weather. “A Canadian astronaut brought some with him on a flight one time.”

George snorts. “Why the hell would you bring bagels to space? Like, what’s the point?” 

Dream shrugs. “Beats me.”

“So, why exactly are you telling me about some Canadian astronaut who brought bagels to space?” He can hardly hold back his laughter. 

“I- I don’t know,” He admits. “I just know a lot of fun facts about bagels. I spent too long on the internet one night forever ago, and for some reason, I still remember them instead of, like… important phone numbers.”

That breaks the dam at last, and George breaks out into high-pitched giggles that he should be embarrassed to let loose in a public space, but he can’t help it. It makes him feel absolutely ridiculous but, then again, so is randomly telling someone that a bag of bagels has managed to accomplish something more momentous in its lifetime than you likely will in yours. “Do you, uh—” He’s interrupted by a snort as he still laughs, which makes him slap a hand over his mouth in chagrin. “Do you have any more fun bagel facts?”

“Oh, but of course,” Dream responds. “I am an endless font of fun bagel facts. For example, did you know,” He holds up a finger in a mocking imitation of an overly wise teacher. “That the biggest bagel in the world was about eight hundred pounds of bread?”

George whistles softly. “Well, color me impressed. That’s a lot of bread. What do you even do with that much? Like, after the record’s been confirmed, what happened to the bagel?”

Dream blinks for a few seconds, processing as he stares off into space and examines nonexistent stars, gaze quirked up and to the right. “You know, I’ve never thought to actually ask that,” He concedes. “I have no fucking idea.”

He can’t help but scoff at the admission because, to be fair, it is a bit of a ridiculous question. Things like logistics and food waste aren’t exactly the priority when making a record-breaking loop of bread. George folds his arms into himself and settles against the dark vinyl of the booth back so that he can keep his spine at a more comfortable tilt. “What else can you tell me about bagels, Dream?”

“Depends on how much you want to know.”

“Well,” George ponders, “Depends on how much research you did exactly.”

Dream shoots him a look, mildly annoyed but he seems willing to entertain it. “If you aren’t gonna be specific, I guess I’ll start from the beginning. Long story short, we don’t know where exactly bagels came from. There are a couple theories,” He begins, also letting himself settle into the seating and turning just enough to comfortably face George. “There’s one myth that says they were invented back in the seventeenth century for a Polish king.” He speaks with enough melodrama that George can’t help but laugh under his breath.

“I feel like the word ‘myth’ is just a little bit dramatic for the bagel origin story.” 

“And calling it an ‘origin story’ makes it less dramatic to you?” Dream quirks an eyebrow high, incredulous but clearly on the verge of laughter. 

George scoffs and dramatically rolls his eyes, elbowing Dream softly in the ribs and drawing an oof from him. “Fine, fine, give me the other bagel myths while we wait for ours.” 

Dream keeps talking about Poland, weaving him stories of tribute and sieges of Vienna and the Ottoman Empire and villages speckled through the countryside, somehow relating all of it back to bagels, which he thinks is a feat in and of itself. His eyes glow with enthusiasm as he rambles, hands animatedly painting his words into the oxygen between them. It might be a trivial topic, but it’s clear that once he starts, Dream won’t stop until he sees his explanation through. It makes something as boring as bread somehow interesting to hear about, and it doesn’t take long for George to lean his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, and smile softly while the other goes on. It’s endearing, this, and painfully domestic. 

Eventually, Dream notices his staring, and stammers to a halt. “I, uh- I’m sorry,” He looks suddenly embarrassed, eyes flitting away as he grabs for the back of his own neck, uncomfortable. “I went on for way too long. I’m bad about doing that, sorry.”

George just tilts his head in confusion. “Why’re you apologizing? It’s cute,” He says it without thinking, and immediately goes to cover it. “I mean, I think it’s sweet. You’re excited to tell me about bagels, so why should you be sorry?”

His face softens, and he just parts delicate lips to say something, but they’re interrupted by their server setting down their two plates. Dream instead turns to the woman and thanks her, flashing a toothy smile that somehow still fits his face, despite it being broad enough to split his cheeks. 

The moment is gone, forgotten and, while breakfast is still technically the subject matter, they’re much more focused on their food now instead of its history. 

It’s enjoyable, it is; the food is delicious in its simplicity and it’s clear that whoever swirled around the small kitchen hidden behind half-walls and metallic shelves cared a great deal about what they made. “This is good.” George finally concludes, still able to feel Dream’s expectant gaze on him. 

He beams at that, taking a bite out of his own bagel as a tacit statement of approval, or maybe just agreement. 

Breakfast passes much like the last one they had together did, and the longer it goes on, the more George realizes just how out of place that strange anxiety he’d felt when they’d first sat down was. One of the reasons that he’d chosen to do any of this with Dream in the first place was because he felt an inexplicable, easy sense of comfort with him, even through the fiber connection of the impersonal internet. There was no reason for him to be nervous with Dream: he trusted the man to quite literally wrap his fingers around his throat and cut off his air supply, so what the hell was breakfast? It’s nothing. 

A foot taps his underneath the table, the thick sole of winter boots easy to feel even through the leather of his own. “You were either really hungry, or you really liked it.” Dream himself pops the last bite of his bagel into his mouth, chasing it with a slice of orange. 

George could boost the other’s ego and make a snipe about how he’d been forced to develop such an appetite after being so thoroughly worn out last night, but he knows that the last thing he needs is more sexual confidence. “It’s good,” He settles on, quirking the corners of his lips up. “You really didn’t have to worry about me not liking it.”

“I don’t know,” Dream concedes, jokingly shrugging. “I’ve met some picky people in my time.”

George kicks him back on his ankle. “Oh, come on, have some faith in me.”

“Stay here a minute,” He says, scooting around the other side of the booth until he can stand. “I’m going to go buy a few so I’ll have them in the house next time.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I will forget otherwise,” He interrupts, laughing his way through it. “Why do you think I didn’t have anything today? I had two weeks’ notice you were coming, and somehow still forgot to buy literally a single item to eat. I’ll be right back.”

George can only affectionately smile as he watches him go back to the counter to order. The back of his flaxen hair is still completely mussed from a night of sleep, not even soothed by a combing of fingers, and it sticks up at seventy different angles, dusting the top of his jumper collar. It’s so easy to admire his broad shoulders from behind— no wonder he was swimming in this jumper of his— as well as the rest of the silhouette that he cuts against the warm wood of the panelled walls, from a narrow waist to long legs to a hell of an ass. Fuck, he’d gotten lucky on that message board. 

He tries to not let himself drown in his thoughts, instead slipping his eyelids shut and resuming the position he’d left off in right before breakfast: settling his chin in his hand yet again. It’s tempting to fall back into that sweet dozing state he’d occupied when he was beneath Dream’s sheets, lulled by a full stomach and a mouth still echoing with the aftershocks of the pomegranate seeds he’d ordered. 

He’s jolted out of it, though, when Dream’s hand lightly strokes the top of his head. It startles him, partially because he wasn’t expecting any touch, but also because it’s much more intimate and familiar than he was anticipating in public. 

“Sorry,” Dream apologizes, withdrawing immediately. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Do you think it’s time we both head home? It’s getting late.”

Still reeling slightly from his touch, he nods. “Y-yeah. Yeah, we should head out.” George slides out from the booth to join Dream, relayering himself until fragile skin is fully protected from the chill that awaits them outside. The collar of Dream’s jumper feels especially warm against the delicate flesh of his throat, and he savors the feeling. 

“Oh, shit,” George pats the pockets of his coat, although he already knows that he isn’t going to find what he’s looking for, because he did it on purpose. “I left my wallet at your place. Mind if I come back with you?”

Dream peers down at him with those gorgeous golden eyes of his. “Yeah, no problem. It’s not like you could get all that far without it, anyway.”

He meets the other’s gaze and feels his own resolve strengthen as he subtly bites his lip and smiles. “Thanks.”

The walk back is spent in comfortable silence while the world swirls around them, vibrant and unhalting in its anonymity. They pass by the endless parade of glass giants and charming brownstones that speckle the commercial fareways until they finally overtake any remnants of retail and mute the traffic they leave behind. Dream’s flat is, at this point, a familiar sight, and he can pick out his windows exactly from the street below. 

Three separate keys later— one for the front gate, another for the building door, and a final for his own front door— they’re standing in Dream’s foyer again, and he can go search for his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter when he’d arrived last night. George slips his coat off, nonetheless, to absorb the warm air holding the living room and to make his own actions easier. 

“Got it?” Dream calls, hanging up his scarves and hat before slipping off the (fittingly) leather gloves and going to put away his doughy acquisitions in the kitchen. 

That’s exactly where he wants him, and George approaches, showing off the wallet in his hand before he comes to a stop in front of Dream. “I want to give you something before I go.” He says, without explaining anything, only looking up at him with a bit of temerity. 

An eyebrow quirks up and entertainment sparks in his gaze, along with a heavy dash of confusion. “If it’s payback for me ruining your sweater—”

“Oh, no,” George interrupts. “It’s not petty. I want to thank you for last night.”

Dream breathes out adoration. “There’s nothing to thank me for. We both walk away with something from that.”

He shakes his head and speaks to clarify. “No, I know that,” George’s confidence is wavering, but he pushes through it. “I mean the shower. You didn’t have to do any of that, and I think it’s only fair I… express my appreciation.” He does his best to lower his voice just a bit and lifts a hand to gently press it to the front of Dream’s jeans, looking to him and waiting for permission. 

The blond takes a shuddering breath, clearly surprised by his boldness, and has to take a moment to swallow before nodding. George decides right then and there that he loves seeing Dream flustered, and he wants to see more of it. “What did you, um- what did you have in mind?”

He doesn’t say anything, instead pressing Dream backward so that his hips hit the kitchen counter and George can drop to his knees before him. 

“Oh.” Dream breathes, planting his palms on the counter and lightly gripping the edges while he looks down at him. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your cheeks that red, and I can’t even see red.” He comments, looking up at him from between his thighs. 

Dream only reddens further. “Well, you- warn a guy before just getting on your knees. You can’t blame me for being a bit surprised.” 

George takes his time, pressing his lips to the front of the other’s pants to create just the slightest bit of friction while he softly grips the corded muscle of his hips to steady himself as he works. It isn’t long until Dream— usually so cool and collected— lets out a shuddering breath and George feels the other’s cock getting very interested at the sight and sensation he’s starting to be lavished with. 

He dips his thumbs under Dream’s belt, just sliding along the leather while he continues to mouth at the outline of him and, while he’s doing this for the blond, George can feel himself start to salivate at the fact he’s getting to touch him so freely. This is rare, and it’s almost a hint of normalcy. 

In the corner of his vision, he sees Dream’s right hand fiddle with the edge of the countertop, clearly wanting to touch, but not sure if he should. It’s unusual seeing him indecisive, too, and George decides to take advantage of it by grabbing his hand and threading it through his hair for him. After taking a moment to regain his bearings, Dream’s fingers begin to wrap coffee threads around them and pull softly. It’s not nearly the same amount of force as he typically uses with him in bed, and George intends to keep it that way. While having his throat used and his breath taken away are appealing, he wants to do this entirely according to his own sentiments, just this once. Besides, Dream had been gentle with him in the shower last night, and he wanted to show that the blond certainly had the expertise in rough play, but George had his own capabilities, too. 

He lifts away from his still-clothed cock to send a heavy-lidded look up to Dream. “You can keep your hand there, but you don’t get to do anything,” George briefly licks a stripe across the thin expanse of skin above Dream’s belt. “I’m taking care of you this once.”

“Alright, baby,” He concedes, lust and curiosity in his eyes. “But don’t you dare get used to it.”

George does his best to ignore the comment, because he’s much too sore to do anything but go home once he’s done on his knees, and doesn’t want to deal with a hard-on of his own. Instead, his fingers go to smoothly unfasten Dream’s belt and undo the button so that he can drag down the zipper with his teeth. That gets exactly the reaction he wants when he hears the blond take in a low gasp and can feel his cock tick against the fabric which separates George from it. 

He continues his ministrations, mouthing over heated flesh until he can tell Dream is starting to get uncomfortable. Soft groans sporadically pepper the air and the fingers woven in his hair gently pull in an attempt to get him to move along where Dream wants him, but he insists on going at his own pace. Thinking back, Dream had said that at some point: We either do this at my own pace, or we don’t do it at all. 

“George…” Dream murmurs, and he can tell that he wants to make it a warning, but George had told him how this would go, and he knows he’ll respect that. So, he instead uses a word that he’s never heard Dream use before. “Please.”

For once, George is the one in control and, while he much prefers being made to submit, he can definitely recognize the appeal of this. He responds by finally pulling aside the last bits of clothing separating Dream’s still-hardening cock from significantly cooler air. The other hisses and squeezes his eyes shut as his heated flesh makes contact with it, and the reaction only strengthens when George presses open-mouthed kisses along his shaft. 

“Ah, fuck.” The blond gasps, other hand coming to join the first in George’s hair. He’s clearly restraining himself from doing what he wants to, which is, of course, to guide the mouth between his legs to exactly where he needs it, but he settles for softly scratching George’s scalp instead. That makes his own eyes flutter shut as he dedicates his effort to getting Dream fully hard and throbbing against his tongue. 

George’s knees are starting to ache a bit, the chilled hardwood of Dream’s flat not serving as the best cushions, but it’s nothing an Advil can’t fix later on. He splays his fingers where they rest on slim hips, and feels them tremble just slightly as Dream gets more aroused and lets his inhibitions fall to a need for pleasure. 

A part of George wants to keep teasing him with glances of his lips and feather-light touches, but he has his own desires, and it’s only a few moments later that he takes the head of Dream’s cock into his mouth. 

The man on the receiving end lets out a low moan, hips tilting just slightly upward to chase more contact, more friction, more heat. George pulls back in accordance, not wanting to bite off more than he can chew (when he thinks about it, that might not be the best analogy to use with such a delicate part of Dream’s body between his teeth), but keeps up his kitten licks as he starts to taste precum on his tongue. He’s just a bit sweet, and he happily laps it up before popping his mouth off with an obscene noise and licking long lines down the shaft instead. 

“George,” The other’s hands are tightening in his hair, fingers and hips shaking as he maintains self-control and defers to George. “Fuck, you’re such a tease.”

He can’t help but softly laugh at that— just a breathy, little thing— as he continues. George doesn’t have the benefit of having done this for Dream before since the other has always used him exactly as he pleased. He doesn’t know where his weak spots lie, or whether he can glance his teeth along the head, or just how much he should hollow out his cheeks to make the other keen. It’s taking him several minutes to learn him, but Dream definitely doesn’t seem to mind, if the lovely noises that fall from his mouth are any indication. 

George finally works his tongue onto just the right patch of flesh, and he’s certainly told. “Oh, god, right fucking there, baby.”

He obliges, making sure to keep teasing him in just the right spot as he wraps his lips around his cock and takes him properly back in. George likes the feeling of him in his mouth, hot and heavy against his tongue and, while he’s meant to be doing this purely for Dream’s enjoyment, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it, too. 

Dream surprises him with a small unintentional buck of his hips, forcing more of himself down George’s throat than he’d been prepared for. He gags and pulls off, wiping extra spit from his mouth. “Hey,” He chastises, looking up at him with disappointment. “That’s rude.”

He’s met with an actual look of guilt. “Sorry, honey,” He chews on his lip, chest shuddering. “It’s hard for me to control myself when you feel so good. And you wearing my clothes doesn’t help.” 

That causes both of them to laugh as Dream’s fingers slip down to fiddle with the top of the turtleneck that he’s wearing. “If you want me to apologize for being too good at getting you off, I’m not going to.”

“‘Course not. You only look good apologizing when you’ve got tears in your eyes.” He smirks, a little too confident considering who holds the responsibility for his satisfaction here. 

“Oh, fuck off.” George sinks back down, taking him deep enough to make his eyes sting; but Dream is the one that chokes, surprised by his sudden move and crying out loud enough to echo throughout the living room. 

Fingers pull his hair a bit tighter, but it’s just a pleasant sting at this point. George doesn’t relent, beginning to move up and down while he holds Dream’s impatient hips against the counter, and the other is starting to properly quiver. 

“Oh, god, George,” Dream moans, and his cock twitches in his mouth. “Fuck, I’m close.”

Already? He wants to say, legitimately surprised. Every single time he’d jumped into bed with him, Dream had outstripped him in terms of stamina by leaps and bounds. For fuck’s sake, he’d made George finish three times in one night while he’d managed to hold out for almost that entire time. But, nonetheless, he renews his efforts and tries to focus all of his attention on the spots that make Dream practically sing, not wanting to take him very deep again. 

Dream’s hips tense beneath his hold, clearly doing everything in his power to not thrust into George’s mouth without permission. “Ah, I’m almost there. Fuck, George… don’t stop!” 

While he came into this wanting to not have Dream control him, he can’t help but give in to what he wants when he asks like that . George can taste where the blond leaks into his mouth, and it’s easy to see that he has him perched right on a ledge. He can feel a hand loosen from his hair and slip down to cup his jaw, stroking his thumb across the stubble he hadn’t shaved this morning. It’s remarkably tender, considering that Dream quite literally has his cock in his mouth, and if this were any other situation, George would have completely melted into his hold. 

Wanting to see him fall apart, George hums softly as he continues to work the other, and Dream’s breathing turns ragged at the new stimulation. “God, I—” When he flicks his eyes upward, he can see the other’s head slack to the side, jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut as he holds on to his clarity with every bit of resolve he has. Dream is completely unguarded: no fronts, no airs, he’s simply basking in the soft pleasure George is giving him as dopamine eats away at his nerves. It’s a new sort of vulnerability from him, and George feels like his ribs are bending out of shape as he processes it. 

He isn’t going for torturous edging; he’d fallen to his knees for Dream so that he could express something inside of him that he’s starting to recognize isn’t necessarily suited for whatever this thing they have is . Why should he be cruel when the things he feels aren’t cruel? 

Dream is clearly about to unravel, a hand sliding to the base of George’s neck in order to tilt his jaw upward just a bit: it’s less harsh than just gripping for his hair and, even in a state of sloshed self-gratification, he’s accommodating to the way George wants this to go. Dream’s getting increasingly vocal, low, gravelled moans echoing through his eardrums with a deep honesty. He’s usually so wrapped up in his own violent pleasure that he doesn’t have the basic frame of mind to think all that much about Dream’s own reactions, but now? Now, he can devote all of his attention to hearing him and, dear god, is it lovely. 

Slipping his fingers firmly beneath the fabric bunched around Dream’s hips, he softly digs his fingernails into the flesh there, and that’s it for him. 

The snap hits him suddenly enough that he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to warn George, gasping out his name like a prayer as heat suddenly spills into his waiting mouth. George happily swallows it down without much shock, letting Dream tilt his jaw up while salt and faint sugar hit his tongue. It seems he eats a lot of fruit; thank god. George moans softly and lets his eyes slip shut while the other finishes, feeling a drop slip from one corner of his mouth, but he’s not exactly in the place to address it. He feels perfectly obscene, despite the more affectionate motivations for this. 

Still breathing hard, Dream finds his words again and slips from his mouth before immediately turning to look down at him with guilt on his face and help George get off his knees. “Shit, I’m so sorry; I didn’t even give you any warning. I should’ve pulled out.”

George takes in a steadying breath now that he has completely unrestricted access to oxygen, and swipes the small trail of cum on his chin before licking it from his thumb. “It’s alright,” He replies, sincere. “I wanted to swallow, anyway.” He shoots him a more sultry look as he fully stands, Dream clearly left just a bit breathless at his actions. He can practically feel the bruises starting to develop on his knees, but it was worth it.

The blond takes a moment to sort himself out, fumbling with his belt as though he’s nervous. “I, um- thank you,” He finally says, timid and still flustered. Blush looks really fucking good on him. “You really didn’t have to.”

He just laughs, grabbing the small leather folio he’d supposedly left behind. “I left this here on purpose,” George states, eyebrows skewed as he teases him. “Just in case you couldn’t tell. You don’t have to thank me.”

That finally causes Dream to crack, wheezing while the blush starts to fade from his cheeks. “You’re just something else, aren’t you?”

“I do try,” He pokes back, ignoring how that makes his face heat. “Well, same time next week, then?” 

Dream blinks at him for a moment, his normal composure clearly rattled from the initiative George had shown. He wasn’t used to not being in control here. “I’m free Wednesday,” He blurts out. “If you wanted to come over sooner.”

Now it’s George’s turn to be a bit surprised. He’d been thoroughly punished in the bedroom after he’d shown his own overeagerness to have Dream pick him apart, but now he’s the one who’s enthusiastically wanted. “I, um- Would I be able to stay the night? I… kind of hated spending the fallout by myself the last time I was here on a weekday.” He feels ridiculous even saying it, and immediately tries to take it back, dragging his hand down his face in embarrassment. “Oh my god, that sounds so stupid, I’m—”

“Of course,” Dream interrupts, silencing him. “I don’t have work that night. I didn’t- I felt awful making you leave last time, too.” He finishes it timidly, voice tinged with regret, just like it had been that night as they idled in his car outside of George’s flat.  

George meets his eyes, pushing through a moment that’s stripped him down a little more than he wants to admit. He’d been so cocky just a minute ago. “Okay, then. I’ll make sure my Wednesday night is clear.”

The other quickly recovers, shooting him a self-assured smirk. “Well, I look forward to making you fall apart, baby. This was nice, but that is what I really love doing.” 

And, just like that, the cloying vulnerability is gone. George can finally release the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and slip back into their familiar banter. It’s just about the sex and, sure, they get along really well, but he’s just letting his desire scramble the neurons that usually correspond to deeper affection. 

He can’t forget that.

Notes:

This was admittedly a shorter chapter than usual, but I still didn’t want this to become an incredibly plot heavy fic so, you know, balance must be struck somehow. Next chapter will be another long (and not safe for work lol) one, and should be up in a week at the latest. I’m dealing with finals right now, so my already limited free time is pretty much nonexistent atm.

Follow me on twitter for updates, general bullshit, and eventually art (once I work up the courage lol), or add me on discord since I have one of those now for this pseud (ess#9291).

 

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Chapter 6: Welcome to the New Starting Line

Summary:

George thinks things would be easier if Dream took not just most of the control, but all of it. Dream is happy to oblige this once.

Notes:

Not much to say ahead of time on this one, other than it’s a little bit more intense/hardcore in terms of risqué subject matter. The Down Bad Fellows (shout out to ao3 user lxtus_png for providing that apt nickname in a comment) are back to 90% hot n’ heavy, so have fun! Sorry for the wait- I was drowning in finals week lol

Huge thanks to my new and absolutely incredible beta readers (you can find their info in my carrd!)

-blackberry/dnf_fics
-and bri!

He thinks a lot about Dream when he’s in bed, he finds. It’s something like two o’clock in the morning now, and he’s wound deep in flannel sheets to ward off the winter chill that seeps through the old seals of his window panes, but he can’t keep thoughts of the blond from seeping into his mind. 

This time, they’re not the thoughts George thinks when he feels heat peaking in his stomach, although he’s certainly entertained plenty of those in his blankets (much to the chagrin of his washing machine). Instead, they’re ones that dwell on this entire strange situation of theirs. 

Why did he want this in the first place? It undoubtedly felt really fucking good, but it’s not like it was hard for George to find someone to let him in their bed. He could just as easily get another man to take him apart, and with a hell of a lot less physical fallout than this arrangement, but with the added benefit of the other things that he wants, that he’s forbidden from here. George wants to feel soft lips move against his own, wants to tangle fingers in someone else’s hair, wants to wrap his legs around another’s waist, and scratch pretty lines down their back. But with Dream, he’s not allowed. He’s usually satisfied with just that and, even if he wasn’t, handcuffs and light bondage are starting to get more mainstream, so it’s not like he couldn’t have any of these desires of his taken care of elsewhere.

So, why Dream? Why this?

George has been thinking about it for probably an hour straight at this point, the nagging reason in the back of his mind not quite coming to light no matter how much introspection he’s done. If it isn’t just sex, then what the fuck is it?

 

hey are you awake?

 

It’s a bit of a rash decision, but every time he’d been uncertain about any of this, Dream had always been able to walk him through his anxieties, and he’s hoping that this time isn’t any different. 

 

He takes a remarkably short time to respond, probably on his phone in bed, if George had to guess.

 

yeah

what’re you up to this late?

 

i guess i just kind of wanted to ask you something

about the stuff we do

 

George watches the other’s bubble disappear and reappear several times before he finally settles on a suitable, and short, response. 

 

do you wanna call? easier than typing

 

alright

 

He waits for Dream to call, and takes in a steadying breath as he picks up the phone once it starts buzzing in his hand. 

“Hey,” The other’s voice, smooth and low from sleep, patches through the speaker. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

George sighs, not really sure where to start. “I guess I’ve just been trying to figure out why I’m doing this.”

“With me or just in general?”

“In general,” He clarifies. “I’m definitely not questioning doing this with you. I mean, I don’t think I’d rather have anyone else, if I’m being honest. I just… I can certainly sleep with someone else and just do normal things, and I’d get to touch them in response, too, which I don’t get to do with you. But, it’s… I don’t know. It’s like that’s not enough somehow, even though it always has been.”

Dream hums in consideration, taking his time to understand what George is saying, and formulate his own response. “Well, we have to start somewhere. Why did you want to start doing this? It obviously feels good, but do you know what beyond that makes this appealing? Because most people don’t feel the way that we do about stuff like this. I can’t even tell you how many weird peripheral comments I’ve gotten from friends about rough play who don’t know I do it.”

He tries to gather his thoughts and comb through the uncomfortably intense array of emotions that he’s felt every time he’s tied up and bruised and used. It’s confusing enough as-is, dealing with just the physical mania of pain and euphoria at the same time, but the things that swirl around in his head are even more difficult to make sense of. “I’m- I’m not entirely sure,” He admits. Then, hoping to have Dream guide him like he always does, he asks: “Why did you start doing this?”

A noise of surprise echoes from miles away. “It was gradual for me,” He starts, blankets shifting around him as he moves the phone in bed. “But I realized, pretty early on once I started sleeping with people, that I really cared about trust. I don’t know; nothing was more attractive to me than someone just putting their faith in me to take care of them.”

“You are definitely a fan of taking care of me.” George jokes, easily able to conjure half a dozen examples in an instant. 

Dream wheezes out a shy laugh. “Yeah, I like doing that a lot. But, I guess the reason I like the… dominant an’ submissive stuff as opposed to just, like, being a giver in bed is that you really have to trust me,” He tries to explain. “You’re confident that I can keep you safe, direct you right, and even hurt you— within reason, obviously. It isn’t like anything else, in terms of how it makes me feel. I guess power’s a part of it, but the fact you choose to give it to me is a lot hotter than finding a thrill in taking it.”

He takes it in, thinking about it. Obviously, he doesn’t have the same sort of sentiments about having control, but George can understand it. “It feels nice to be trusted.” He agrees, staring at the darkest recesses of his ceiling. 

“But it’s different for everyone,” Dream continues, taking that same patience he always had since they’d started messaging. “Other people who are dominant just like being able to indulge their sadism, some like having control due to some personal reason or other, some just like feeling strong. And it’s the same way for everyone that submits: why you like it is different from the why for someone else.

“You don’t have to know exactly why, especially since you haven’t even been doing it all that long, but it’s a good thing to start thinking about,” He finishes. “Just for your own clarity, but it’ll also help me. If I know why you want to give up control, I can make it better for you, honey.”

George tries to examine his own thoughts, going through the veritable filing cabinet of things he feels toward Dream and the things he does to him. “It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. I mean, I’ve been sitting here for at least an hour trying my damndest to figure it out and it’s not the first time I’ve done that, either.”

“Well, what have you thought about, exactly? Maybe I can help you sort through ‘em.” 

Why did he have to be so infuriatingly accommodating?

The last time, before tonight, that he’d dedicated actual time to it had probably been back in that lonely hotel room, bored and anxious for more. It doesn’t take him long to recall exactly what he’d been thinking. “I work long hours and, you know, my job is stressful; my life is stressful. I guess that, when we do this, I don’t have to worry about fighting for myself constantly, you know? I just… get to give in, let you do what you think is best, and I take it. I don’t have to struggle or fight or even think: I just surrender, and that… I like that.” George can feel some flushed lust rise to his face as he imagines it. 

Dream’s gentle smile can be heard through his voice when he speaks again. “That’s a good reason. Sometimes it’s nice not having to think about control.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m getting at,” He pauses. “At least, I think so. I don’t have to worry about messing something up or disappointing you, either. It’s… it’s nice to know that I can satisfy you, too.” His cheeks heat more. 

“You’d satisfy me no matter what you do,” Dream reassures, clearly hearing his insecurity. “But, did you want to maybe try more? Where I had more control? If you like the idea of surrendering, we can go a step further than what we’re doing.”

George would be lying if he said he hadn’t wished for the proposition already. “How would you take more control?”

A dark but heady laugh patches through to his ears, and George lets it wash over him, beautiful. “Well, right now I punish you if you don’t listen, but I could simply not give you any chance to disobey in the first place.”

His breath catches. 

“We obviously have to talk it through a lot more ahead of time, because I need to make sure you’re clear on how to signal if it’s too much, and you need to make sure I’m clear about your consent,” He explains, measured and calm. “The more serious this gets, the more careful we need to be; I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I violated a boundary. But I’d be up to talk it through, if you are.”

George lets his mind begin to turn: he imagines tight binds and merciless direction and absolute ownership. How overwhelming could these feelings get? How much more beautiful could he look coated in dripping rope? How much could he completely abandon himself? He doesn’t want it to be that intense all the time, but right now?

“Let’s talk about it.”

---

Wednesday arrives, and so, too, does George on Dream’s doorstep. He typically takes Fridays to work at home, but he moved around his schedule to do it tomorrow instead so that he could properly deal with the fallout of whatever the fuck this was about to be. He’d brought a satchel of things with him, as instructed: a toothbrush, a razor, even his laptop if he really was that bent out of shape come morning. He doesn’t have Dream’s jumper tucked in with them, which he had admittedly done on purpose, and he hopes the other doesn’t think to ask about it. 

Can you blame him? It’s wonderfully well made, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy swimming in the warm wool. If you think about it, Dream did ruin one of his jumpers, so this is just an equal repayment; nothing else. He’s not being sappy. 

Dream had told him to come over a bit earlier than he tended to in the evenings, just so that they could run over everything they’d talked about again, for clarity’s sake. He was admittedly a little bit nervous, although it wasn’t the sort of nerves that were necessarily all bad. There’s also a huge anticipation to it, of course, that boils and simmers in the pit of his stomach. It’s just a more intense version of the things he’s already let Dream do to him with little to no complaints, or even bumps in the road. 

He takes a deep breath and presses the buzzer, waiting for Dream to come and fetch him and take him completely into his care for the next twelve hours. The taller man’s words from the other night swirl and echo around his mind, filling the inside of his skull to the brim as he contemplates what exactly this is going to be like in reality. George can imagine all he wants, recalling the things he’d seen other people record, but he knows that, just like that first night, he can’t really understand what Dream is going to make him feel until he feels it. 

There’s a warbled, muddied sound in his periphery, but it seems of little enough consequence that he can ignore. That’s clearly shown to be the wrong choice when a gentle grip comes to wrap around his forearm. “Earth to George.”

Blinking back into life and squeezing the handle of his satchel, he’s met with Dream: very real and very close. “Oh, sorry! I zoned out for a second.”

“You alright there?” He’s peering down at him with an intense and sincere gaze; legitimate concern. 

George shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah, I’m fine,” He replies, meeting his eyes with more steadiness than he had before. “Just a bit nervous, is all.”

“We’ll go bit by bit, alright? No rushing anything , and we talk everything over,” Dream reassures, hand sliding to George’s back to further his physical comfort. “Why don’t you come up and focus on getting comfortable first, okay?”

He lets Dream usher him into the building and guide him upstairs, hand not leaving his back, which he greatly appreciates. 

“Bag?” A large hand is held out, clearly expecting George to place the strap of his satchel into it, which he complies with after a moment. Dream takes the liberty of pulling his coat from his shoulders next. 

“Such a gentleman, aren’t you?” He teases, adamant about at least taking his own shoes off this time, which he sets in a neat line right next to Dream’s front door. 

The blond chuckles under his breath, hanging up his things and gesturing toward the couch. “I do try,” He concedes, although it’s magnanimous and slightly showy. “Want anything to drink? I’d ask if you wanted dinner, but it’s probably best to hold off on that until later. I have some leftovers, if you can stay awake after.”

He considers. “No, I’m fine,” When he sits down on the soft leather, he relishes the feeling of the worn covering beneath his palms. “So, where do we start?”

“Well,” Dream starts, settling next to him and leaning back against the couch, head tipping back as he relaxes. “Other than being a little nervous, how are you?”

Eyebrows quirk up as he tilts to meet his gaze. “Seriously? How am I?”

“Yeah, seriously,” He confirms, handsome face graced by the gentle curve of a tender, sincere smile. “Baby, we aren’t going into this without us both being good.”

It’s sensical and rational, because of course it is, and he gives in. “I’m fine, really,” George reassures. “I’ve had a pretty decent week so far; I got a good amount of sleep last night; had a weirdly tasty lunch. I’m good, promise. Are you?”

Dream nods. “Yeah, I’m really good, actually. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a bit excited to have you here, but I feel great.”

“What now, then?” George shifts so that his shoulder presses into the back of the couch, and he can draw closer to Dream, more easily able to meet his eyes. 

The blond responds by mirroring his posture, curling into himself and settling a bent leg onto the couch between them, bumping into George’s knees. “We go over the scene, make sure we know what to expect. It’s more important that you understand what’s going on, since it’ll be hard for you to adjust in the middle,” He explains, going down a mental checklist. “We need to establish safety stuff— you know, safeword, signals if you go non-verbal again. All in all, just make sure we’re both on the same page.”

He hums out a noise of confirmation, feeling his cheeks heat just slightly as he anticipates the conversation to come. “It’s almost weird, talking it out like this. I’m so used to sex being… spontaneous, I guess.”

“I mean, we’ve been a bit spontaneous sometimes,” He jokes. “Besides, I think there’s something kind of sexy in talking everything through, you know? Sure, you know what’s going to happen, but you don’t know how it’s going to actually feel . It’s like seeing the trailer for a movie.

George laughs, soft and affectionate, as he rolls his eyes. “Alright, I can get that. Go on, then. Show me the trailer.” There’s a lilting tease in his voice that he sees Dream’s attention latch on to. 

Dream reaches forward to take his hands, and it makes his breath stutter. Sure, Dream holds him and touches him plenty, but this feels somehow so much more intimate than any of those, warm palms against his own. “Well, you’re going to be just about as tied up as you can be. It won’t be the most complicated setup, since I want to be able to get you out quickly if things change, but you won’t really have any freedom of movement, just like you asked for. You’re still okay with that?”

He nods enthusiastically. “And you’ll have me on my back, right?”

“Yep. That’s what you wanted, so I made sure to pick ties for that.” Dream confirms, a thumb swiping heavy across the back of his knuckles. Fuck, that makes concentrating a bit harder than he wants to admit. “And you’re sure you want the collar? It tightens, and dealing with your breathing can be dangerous, so I really want you to be honest about your comfort level here, George.”

The mention of the collar makes his eyes fall shut. It had first come about in that phone call, when he was half-asleep and far too honest with his desires. If he wanted Dream to control him, collaring him in the literal sense was probably the single most direct expression of that. When the blond had mentioned it, he’d immediately been intrigued. That, combined with the sweet taste of the light squeezes that Dream had already pressed to his throat, made him salivate. It still does. “Yes, please,” It comes out like a whisper, gaze heavy-lidded. “I really want that.”

“I’m not going to tighten it until a while in, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

George’s poor impulse control ticks, but he knows that the other is right. “You won’t tighten it until later, but you’ll still pull, right?” 

Dream nods, one hand rising to trace the delicate curves of George’s throat, making him shudder and his breath seize. “What better way to control you, baby?”

“And I- I’ll hum if I end up not able to talk? To let you know to stop?”

“Your hands will be behind your back, so I think that’s probably the best thing,” The blond confirms, still carefully tracing his neck and running over his Adam’s apple. “Why don’t you pick what you hum?”

“Would you kill me if I said Never Gonna Give You Up ?”

“I’ll kick you out in five seconds unless you change your answer.”

George giggles, sure that Dream can feel it against the pads of his fingers. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” It’s hard to talk from how he’s laughing at his own jokes. “Um… how about I just hum the same three notes? That sounds intentional enough, right?”

“Sure, that works,” He confirms. “Use your colors and the safeword if you can first, though.”

He confirms that he understands, and moves on to the next question. “Tonight, you’re going to hurt me without it being a punishment, right?”

Dream meets his eyes with the most seriousness they’d held until that point. There’s gravity and an attraction there that makes George want to bloom under his gaze. “Is that still what you want? I’m obviously going to be conservative about all of it, but I need you to be certain.”

It only takes him half a breath to recall the aftershocks of past impacts: bittersweet agony lacing through his skin as his blood rushed with cortisol and adrenaline. Having it come as punishment gave it meaning, and only made his desire to be good for Dream stronger; but this was a different beast. It had been his idea, yes, but he was taking on a lot more than he had in their previous encounters. “I want to try it,” George decides, reassuring himself. “But, maybe… could you just start slowly?”

“Of course, baby,” Dream soothes, palm softly cupping the lower corner of his jaw, right by his ear. “I’d never push, especially not with this. We’ll start small, and if you change your mind, I’ll just stick to the restraints, alright?”

He nods, tipping his head just so slightly into the warm hand cradling his face. “Alright. I know that you won’t- that you’re careful.”

“And you’re sure you really want me to be rough with you?” Dream doesn’t look nervous in the slightest, but rather his sharp cheekbones carry a high elegance of sincere concern. He’s giving George every single opportunity to back out, to reevaluate; kind and measured and he could just fucking drown in it.

“I- I want to see what you’re like when you’re aggressive,” He confirms. “I’m curious. Are you okay with being rough with me?” George mirrors his inflection, trying to figure out if Dream’s hesitation is because he’s uncertain about George or uncertain about himself.

The blond’s expression shifts, taking him in with a fascination and a softness that hadn’t been there earlier. “You’re still new to this, George,” He starts to explain. “I’m comfortable with my own ability, and I know how to hold myself back, but I want to make sure that you aren’t pushing yourself to bite off more than you can chew just because you feel like you’re supposed to.”

He takes a moment of courage and presses his own palm to Dream’s knuckles. “I’m not pushing myself. I want to see what it’s like— what you’re like,” George meets his eyes with conviction, very intentionally picking his next words. “And I trust you.”

His phrasing hits its intended mark as he watches in real time as Dream’s pupils widen just slightly and he swallows thickly. “Alright. Still, I’ll be careful with you tonight. If it goes well, we can do more another time, okay?”

George signals affirmation and has the wherewithal to withdraw his hand before his own cheeks start to heat underneath Dream’s hold. 

“Last thing,” He says, amusement in his eyes again as the serious mantle hanging over them drops. “Where do you want me to finish?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. George recalls when he’d fallen to his knees for Dream, and reliving the experience is tempting, but his preferences are obvious. “Where do you think?”

Dream’s more serious exterior finally falls completely. “Predictable, aren’t you, baby? But I can never say no to you.”

“Can we- can we start?” He whispers, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. “Please?”

“If you’re ready.” 

And, with that, there’s a flurry of movement as Dream stands and pulls George into his arms until he’s being carried again. 

He turns a furious shade of crimson and sputters at the reversal of gravity, frantically grabbing for the strong line of Dream’s shoulders. “Hey! Warn me next time!”

“Sorry, sorry.” His apology is sincere, but there’s still a glimmer of humor in Dream’s eyes.

George didn’t want to admit that he liked this as much as he did, butterflies fluttering between his ribs and threatening to spill from his lips, but he does . He can only pull Dream’s sweatshirt between his fingers and hope the other doesn’t notice the fact his face is dusted with blush. 

“No roughness during this part,” He clarifies, letting George down so that he can stand by the foot of the bed. “Go ahead and strip— all of it— while I get all the rope ready.”

He immediately pulls his shirt up by the collar, dragging the second layer he wears beneath with it. George lets his clothes fall aimlessly to the ground, stepping out of his joggers next before hungrily slipping off the last scraps of cloth on his body and sitting, bare, on the edge of the bed while he waits for Dream. 

The man in question is digging quietly and carefully through a set of boxes on the bookshelves in the corner, pulling out loops of crimson rope and the new item they’d talked about. The sight of it makes George take in a quick, shaky breath of anticipation. He can’t see Dream’s face, but his posture is one of consideration as he weighs the things that he needs in his hands. 

“You haven’t had any serious chafing, right? With the rope?” He calls, tossing his voice over a broad shoulder while he gathers what he needs in one arm and uses the other to put the boxes back. 

“No, just minor rope burn.” 

“Excellent,” Dreams plops down next to him, weight heavy on the mattress. “This is going to take a little while, okay? I wish I could make it faster, but there’s only so much I can do on the expediting front here.”

He presses his thighs together and shifts a bit awkwardly, not sure what he should be doing when Dream isn’t commanding him. “I can be patient.”

The other shifts on the bed so that he’s now behind George, and runs his hands lightly down his throat until fingers wrap around and softly tilt his chin up, hardly pressing. “Collar first.”

His breath shudders, and it’s not from the light pressure against his neck. “Please, sir.”

The soft leather settles heavy on his throat as Dream reaches around him to fasten the o-ring of the clasp. The metal there is still cool against his skin, pressed right against the curve of his Adam’s apple. It’s just restrictive enough and just present enough to make his muscles tighten: pleasant pressure that ensures he won’t forget that he’s submitting and who exactly he is submitting to. 

“Not too tight?”

“God, no.” George gasps, eyes fluttering shut as Dream draws his hands down his forearms until they firmly grasp his wrists. 

Dream pulls his arms behind his back, pinning his wrists with just one hand as he reaches off to the side to grab for rope. “I’ll be tying your arms together as far up as you can comfortably go, then doing one of those pretty harnesses that you wanted. It gets a little trickier with your legs, so we’ll deal with that in a bit. Mind if I just move you how I need?”

He nods. “Yeah, of course. I’ll tell you if you bend me out of shape at all.”

“Good boy,” George shivers at the praise and feels rope looped once, twice, three times around one wrist and abandoned before the same process is repeated on the other. “I know you usually get so trembly during this part, but don’t get too worked up too early, okay? Want to put a ring on you again.”

“I don’t really have much control over that,” He jokes, trying to ignore how lovely the tightening rope feels. “But, I’ll do my best.”

There’s a comfortable quiet as cotton line is drawn up each of his arms in a significantly more complicated pattern than those Dream had used before. It seems like it’s anchored with several heavy loops around his wrists, which are then tied together before he spends a long amount of time knotting together something in between. Next comes another set of loops below his elbows, and even more latticework. 

He continues like this for what probably amounts to a little more than five minutes, careful and precise in his movements, and George almost starts to feel drowsy under his ministrations. It’s ritualistic and intimate, and Dream only further heightens that feeling when he presses slightly-chapped lips to the knob of George’s left shoulder in a gesture of affectionate sweetness. “Not too tight?”

“No, it’s nice,” He rouses himself from his creeping doze, able to feel where the rope squeezes his flesh. “Not uncomfortable.”

George can’t see him, but he can almost feel the fondness radiating from Dream, likely in the form of a tenderly curved smile. “Alright. Two more anchors to finish up, and then I’ll work on your chest, okay?”

He can only hum out a confirmation as he relaxes back into the process. George can’t tamp down the arousal that starts to flicker and pique in his hips, at least not entirely, but he’s still able to focus enough on the ceremony of it all that he can keep his cock in check, like he’d been told. He wants to be good for Dream. 

It doesn’t take that much longer until he feels the last two coils of ropes tied just beneath the curve of his shoulders, and George knows he’s completely and totally immobile there. “Do you- do you want me to pull?”

“Please, baby.” Dream responds, withdrawing his hands to watch. 

He strains against his bonds and the rope digs into the softer flesh of his arms, making him quietly groan. “It’s- it’s good.”

The rope is set aside and Dream swivels around him once more, coming to settle on the floor and kneel right at the foot of the bed. Those wonderful hands of his come to slide up his legs and carefully spread them apart so that he can slot between them. 

George flushes furiously, and feels a spike of desire slice through him. “You aren’t helping me not get worked up, Dream.” He mutters, not meeting his eyes as rope is drawn around his chest. 

Dream can’t stop the giggle that bubbles from his chest and the smirk which spreads across his face with a life of its own. “I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” George tuts, trying to steady his breathing again. 

His jab is warmly ignored in exchange for other small talk that does, admittedly, do an excellent job in distracting him from his own lust. “Well, I couldn’t stop myself from eating a couple, but the good news is: I do still have bagels left for you tomorrow.”

He laughs as the rope looped around his arms is joined with more twisting ties that begin to wrap around his chest in the beautiful patterns he’d long envied on others online. “I do appreciate eating breakfast, so I’m glad to hear you at least have some left.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’d let you starve,” Dream pokes back, snapping a rope against the flesh of his waist and making him hiss, but it’s not a sound of actual hurt. “I’m just… forgetful. God, you should’ve seen me in college. It’s better now that I have, like, a basic routine, but I was a hot mess.”

“Oh, same, I- oh!” Dream’s hands swipe just a little too low as he starts to finish this part of the rope, and a breathy moan is wrenched from George’s mouth. 

Gilted irises flick up to take in his reaction, and they display little remorse. “I think I need to restrain you here first,” He intentionally lilts a finger along George’s cock, quickly hardening against his thigh. “Before I move onto your legs.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” He slips out. “I know I promised to be good.”

Dream leans to grab from the small puddle of items he’d left on the blankets, searching before those fucking hands are back on his cock, making him twitch. “Oh, it’s okay, baby. I’m not going to be mean just yet. But, don’t worry: this’ll help you remember.”

The metal ring is slipped down his shaft until it can settle against his pelvis, making his flesh heat just ever so slightly. 

“There we go,” Dream concludes before pushing him down onto the mattress, on his back. “Legs now, then we can get started.”

George is splayed in another humiliating position, legs bent in half, thighs spread, and tied to the ropes criss-crossing his abdomen so that all of him is on display in the lewdest possible manner. He isn’t able to control himself now, cock throbbing where it lays against his stomach, and he knows that the flush on his chest has reached a point of no return. He held out as long as he could, but he’s only human, in the end. He can already tell that his shoulders will ache later on as he lays on top of his bound arms, but he doesn’t mind.

Dream might be done, but his voice softens momentarily as he does the last check-ins. “Nothing is too tight?” He waits for George to say no. “Can you move?” 

George groans softly as he gives his negation, pushing against meters upon meters of rope and beautiful knots, trailing over his body in intricate patterns that make him feel like an elaborate display. 

He’s left on the bed, much too exposed and twitching from it, while Dream cleans up the excess rope he’d taken and pulls all his clothing from his body, save for a pair of tight-fitting black underwear that certainly leaves absolutely nothing to George’s fevered imagination. “Just the blindfold and the lead left, alright?”

“Please.” He whines, hips barely squirming as his head is carefully lifted, Dream’s long fingers carding through his hair in a moment of gentility, so silk can be tied around his eyes and plunge him into darkness. They’d gone back and forth a few times about this during that first phone call, Dream initially thinking it was too much and George being very enthusiastic. He eventually managed to convince him to use it. In the end, he thought that not being able to see what was coming would help abate any anxiety he might have, and it makes the gentle touch Dream trails along his jaw as he withdraws so much sweeter. 

At last, George feels a metal clasp link into the ring at his throat, and he trembles.

“There,” Dream coos, leaning low enough that he can feel his warm breath against his cheek. “Are you ready, baby?”

He gasps, extending the column of his neck in a natural reaction. “Yes, please, sir.”

“You know all your signals?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure you—”

“Fuck’s sake,” George snaps, the anticipation getting to his head. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Please, just—”

His words are halted by the slash of a riding crop across his chest, followed not even a breath later by a harsh tug of the lead attached to his throat that just slightly lifts his head from the mattress. “Don’t you dare fucking interrupt me, Georgie.” Dream growls. He hadn’t even seen him get out the crop, and he’s reeling. “You don’t ever talk back, is that understood?”

He has to take a moment to regain his basic sense, the sting of leather screaming on his chest. The steady grip Dream has on the lead attached to his collar makes him lose his breath, but not because it’s cutting off any of the air in his windpipe. George manages to gasp out a response. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be,” Dream doubles down, voice heavy with an authority he’s seen before, but in much less potent concentrations. “Because I won’t tolerate any misbehavior tonight. I mean that.”

The grip on the lead slackens, and George falls back to the bed with a grateful sigh. “Thank you, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Dream only hums, refusing to say anything, but George can feel his intense gaze raking over his body with an ownership he’s kept more in check during their past dalliances. Despite not being able to see it, it makes electricity course through every cell of his skin, alive with wanting and the early creep of adrenaline. He doesn’t have long to bask in it, though, as the crop comes twice more in rapid succession, mercilessly licking down his ribs with aching force and making him arch. 

The other waits in silence, clearly giving him several long moments to try and get a handle on his ragged, gasping breaths and evaluate his comfort level: an out. George isn’t ready to ask for more intensity, but he knows that he doesn’t want to stop either when he feels the first drops of precum bead on the head of his cock. 

“Green.” He gives Dream a gasped indicator, hoping that, now, whatever delay there is between actions is purely because Dream is drawing it out, not because he’s trying to determine George’s own comfort. 

He gets the response he hungers for when the crop strikes one of his hips— straight on the protrusion of bone— and he warps into a curve that’s so tight it’s almost painful as he cries out. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Dream drawls, voice deliciously husked. “So fucking filthy, liking being whipped. I can see how hard you’re getting from this, baby, and that’s what you are: absolutely debauched.”

George whines out some sort of emotion, but he isn’t sure whether it’s shame, lust, or just embarrassment at the coarseness of it all. No matter what he feels, though, he can’t deny the fact that the screaming slashes adorning his torso now make his cock twitch in want. 

It comes again: bright, flashing pain that sends tears properly streaming from his eyes. “Oh, god!”

“Can’t even respond when I ask you questions,” Dream chastises, slashing him again in between binds of rope. “You can’t even behave when you have no choice.”

He lets out a strangled sob. “I’m sorry, sir. I want to be good for you.”

Dream hums, clearly not convinced. “Clearly you don’t want it enough. Well, glad you can’t do a goddamn thing, then. You deserve everything that you get tonight.” A large hand trails heavy and possessive down the stripes of sensitive skin that Dream carved into him, well-trimmed nails just slightly scratching and causing gooseflesh to crest along his body. 

With George’s chest shuddering, wracked with shaking breaths and soft sobs, Dream steps back to give him a moment to recover. He does it silently, and the only reason he can tell is because the lead falls slack again. He immediately misses the gentle, slight pressure of the leather pulled taut. 

He whines at the absence and at the ache that’s beginning to lace through his body, squirming as much as he can in his bonds against the smooth sheets below him. George knows that the effort will ultimately get him nowhere, considering exactly how well Dream has him tied up tonight, but there is only so much self control that he can muster. 

The man responsible for his restraints returns, lilting the embroidered edge of the crop along the hollow of his throat, moving down with such painful slowness that George positively whimpers. It drags from its starting point, down his sternum, brushing over ridges of rope along the way and making him shiver. 

“All laid out on display,” Dream coos as he continues to torture his already overly-attuned skin with feather-light drags of the crop. “But you never answered my question. You like this, don’t you ?” He presses the leather into George’s inner thigh, dangerously close to territory that would make him crack under impact. 

The proximity makes his breath tremble, and he rushes to answer. “I- I do,” George admits, a blot of discomposure furiously lighting inside of him. “I don’t know why, but it’s- I do.” And there’s truth, there: he has no idea why he feels sparks roiling the blood in his hips, but there’s no way for him to deny it.

Dream only strikes him again on incredibly delicate flesh, forcing a strangled yelp from his throat, and scoffs at him. He can feel the other’s domineering gaze even though he’s separated from it by a strip of opaque silk. Instead of giving him a proper response, he pulls at the lead again, dragging his neck up from its resting place against the mattress until his spine starts to lift away, too. The sensation leaves George softly whimpering as it digs into the vertebrae on the back of his neck and, despite the softness of the leather and whatever kinder fabric lines it, it feels like metal against his protrusions of bone. 

“You’re so fucking easy.”

It’s not like it matters behind the blackness of cold silk, but his eyes squeeze shut at the implications heavy in Dream’s words. Blush flares on his cheeks as he tries to battle the glowing humiliation he feels clawing its way out of his ribs. 

Another hit: striking, stinging, brutal. It’s high on the inside of his thigh, and the fragile flesh there screams in the wake of Dream’s force. He isn’t holding himself back— well, at least compared to the other nights he’d given George glimpses of this— and he’s never been more aware of the strength held taut in the beautiful muscle of his arms. Nonsense slips from his mouth as he babbles out the sweet agony he’s in. 

He hears Dream sigh, and can almost feel the appraisal being rained down upon him. “Shame that the blindfold stops those lovely tears from going down your pretty cheeks,” He tuts, further fading into the swirling black of his obstructed vision. “But those noises you make… so gorgeous.”

“They-they are?” George manages to croak out, quaking just starting to break out over his body. 

“Laying there, just taking it. All your little cries and whimpers; like music to me, baby.” Dream pulls more from him by digging a thumb deep into one of the slashes on his thigh, making him choke out a high keen. 

George isn’t sure what he wants; the praise makes a part of him heat until it’s glowing red-hot, but it’s clouded by the feverish aftershock of pain and the sting of embarrassment— humiliation, or shame, perhaps, he can’t tell— at recognizing just how much he loves this. He’ll be a mess come morning, but the tightening coil deep in his stomach tells him that it’s so fucking worth it.

There is silence; contemplation, restraint, a baited hesitation. Dream leaves him in suspension for an indeterminate amount of time, bare feet just barely making noise against the floor as he circles the bed. The next touch isn’t harsh, but it makes George frantically gasp as the crop presses against the throbbing flesh of his cock and doesn’t move. It would only take Dream’s hand a withdrawal of a few inches to bring a violent pang to him, and the threat of it just makes him leak onto the rope latticing his stomach. 

“Please, sir,” He whispers, words cracking. “That’s- that’d be too much. Please, I’m sorry for being bad earlier; forgive me.”

Dream hums as he thinks, delicately tracing the prominent vein on the underside of his cock and making him writhe from the pleasure and the anticipation of it all. He refuses to say anything at all and, while George basks in the feeling of his heated flesh against cold air, he’s so consumed with his own screaming neurons that he doesn’t notice Dream popping open the cap of a bottle of lube, nor any of the other things that accompany it. 

The crop withdraws from its dangerous position, and he shudders out a sigh of relief that instead warps into a broken moan when something thin and leather-clad presses against him, slick with lube that had thankfully been warmed by Dream’s capable fingers. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s the handle of the crop, and the recognition sends his chest flushing with heat. 

“If you think that I’m done with you,” Dream states, rubbing against vulnerable flesh but not yet pushing in and giving George what he wants. “Then you’re so very wrong, baby. I need to bruise you up much more than this, but I want to see you get a little more desperate first.”

George whines out, doing his best to press against the crop handle, and he’s rewarded with a harsh slap across the already-screaming flesh of his right inner thigh. He reacts instinctively, muscles locking and beginning to tremble. Adrenaline is rushing through him now, a stampeding torrent that makes the bones of his ribcage feel alive and ready to spread; his head is light as his heart pounds a thousand meters a minute. 

Dream’s hand doesn’t linger. There’s none of the gentle soothing he had grown accustomed to after an impact, and it makes wanton tears slip from his reddened eyes. “You’re so fucking tied up and yet,” There’s a vicious curl of savagery in his tone, and George could drown in the fear it provokes. “You still can’t obey my simplest rule. What a pathetic slut you are.”

Degradation that explicit is new, and he can feel the hesitancy that spreads through the air, emanating from Dream in ragged waves. “Color?” His stony, extreme exterior drops entirely for a second, voice so welcoming and patient that he just might shatter from being on the receiving end of it. 

He swallows, a heavy fight against the tightness in his throat from tears and a pleasant anxiety, and the quiver in his voice isn’t something that George can mask when he finally responds. “Y-yellow. Not sure how I feel about it still.”

“Sorry, I’ll reign the language back a bit,” Dream concedes, each plate of his facade being reapplied as he moves through the arching syllables and euphonous clauses of the sentences. God, the things his fucking voice does to George. “But that doesn’t change what you are. Why the fuck should I reward you with this,” The slickened handle wiggles against him with nowhere near enough pressure to actually slip inside of him. “When you can’t even do the simplest things for me?”

The thought of being deprived makes a sob leak from his mouth. He didn’t come this far only to have Dream walk away and leave him to come down on his own, disappointed and pent up and just in pain. “Please, I’m so sorry, sir,” He gasps out. “I’m trying my best, I promise, and I’ll be better— I will! I’ll be so good for you, and you can use me however you want. I’ll be good, I’ll be good—”

George is interrupted by the lead pulling at his neck again, words completely dying in his throat as he’s dragged up close enough that he can feel Dream’s breath on his inevitably blotchy face. He’s so close that it’s almost agonizing. 

“Guess what, Georgie?” He taunts, his voice a Delphic growl that sends electricity racing down his spine. “ I don’t believe you .”

Some sort of visceral noise erupts from between his lips, but he couldn’t describe it, even if he tried. The breathlessness it triggers isn’t helped when, rather than simply being released, Dream pushes him harshly back into the mattress, grip positively bruising where it digs into his delicate left collarbone. If he listened hard enough, he could’ve sworn he heard the creak of Dream’s joints as he did it. 

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind on how I want this night to go,” He declares, not easing up where he’s brutally pinned George. “I was going to tease you, drag it out for so long that you fucking wished the pain was worse, but I don’t want to put up with a disobedient brat. I’m gonna open you up, and then I’m gonna fuck you as hard and fast as I want. I don’t care if you come; I don’t even care if you can’t walk in the morning. I’m using you tonight because you’re mine , and you need to be taught a lesson. Do you understand?”

George is left speechless, tongue limp in his mouth as he processes the proposition; or, rather, the dictate. When he had called Dream that night, in a fit of indecision and confused longing, this is exactly what he had imagined, and he’s having a difficult time working his mind around this new reality. 

“I asked you if you understand, George.” Dream repeats firmly, insistent on a response. But, he doesn’t have to focus all that much to hear the diaphanous edge of concern over his lack of engagement. 

He does his best to gather himself, as much of a challenge as that is, and finally manages to force words from his tongue after substantial negotiations with the contours of his mouth. “I understand, sir. Please, I deserve it.”

“Goddamn right you do,” Dream retorts, and George can feel him hovering so fucking close, just out of range. “Well, darling, I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

The words are accompanied by the slim handle of the crop finally slipping inside of him. It’s just about as thick as one of Dream’s fingers, so it isn’t shocking, but the sensation is so foreign that it makes him gasp. “Oh!” 

Unlike long and skilled fingers, the crop is unyielding and stiff, not thrumming with the heat of life or consciousness, but it’s far too thin to be a proper toy. It’s breathtakingly odd, and doesn’t grow any easier to comprehend as Dream begins to work it in and out of him.

Dream whistles, low and sultry. “God, if only you could see how fucking lewd you look right now. I used this...” There’s a sharp push that moves the crop deep into him and makes him mewl. “To cover you with all these scores of bruises-to-be and get you hard as sin, and now I bet I could make you come with it, too, just like this.”

“No, no; please, sir.” George pleads, although he isn’t quite sure what for at this point. He just wants something , anything, as long as it’s Dream. 

Seeming to indulge his request, he feels one of Dream’s long fingers press against him before sliding in alongside the handle and starting to properly work him open. “Oh, god, fuck—” 

It’s perfectly obscene: here he is, humiliatingly splayed on the bed of a man he fucks for fun, tied up within an inch of his life in meters upon meters of rope, bright red impact marks littering his body, and so hard that it almost hurts as much as the aftershocks of the crop which is now, quite literally, fucking him. Jesus Christ, he really did sign up for this, didn’t he? He wants to feel ashamed in finding all of this so ridiculously good , but as he feels Dream’s short nails dig into his shoulder, he comes to the conclusion, for the final time, that something like that was just not even worth his thought. 

Dream doesn’t take quite as much time as he had in the past to scissor him open, adding another finger just before he’s ready, and George whimpers out at the burning stretch. 

“Aw, is that too much, doll?” 

George knows it’s a taunt, but he nods in confirmation anyway. The motions of his fingers don’t relent, just like he’d expected, and they force George to accommodate as he continues to leak against his stomach, unable to control the vicious spikes of arousal tearing through him despite the soreness wracking his body. 

He wants to beg to address the deep ache inside of him, but Dream has made it abundantly clear how he wants him to behave tonight and he doesn’t have to waste much thought to realize begging will get him nowhere. George decides to stick to high whines and breathy moans, desperate for more of the praise that Dream loved to lavish upon him. 

“Mm, I can’t wait to fuck you, baby,” He croons, sliding in a third finger with an incredibly self-satisfied huff as a pleased wail is torn from George’s voice box. “Always so tight.”

The leather handle is angled just right, and George swears he sees stars. “Dream— oh!”

The man responsible, in all his glorious cruelty, responds by withdrawing completely, leaving George entirely empty and writhing in displeasure, which earns him a quick nick from the business end of the crop. “I’m getting tired of punishing you, George. Behave while I get myself off.”

George’s breath trembles, chest heaving from a bitter mélange of sensation and endorphins. “Y-yes, sir.”

The bed dips under Dream’s weight, and the new proximity of his body almost makes George feel like he’s being doused in boiling water. He wants to touch, to grab, to soothe his hands over every inch of him, and his wrists twitch where they’re pinned beneath unsteady hips. Dream grabs for him there, pushing down to spread his legs somehow even further— to the point that he almost feels his sockets softly crack from the stretch— and his fingers are sharp where they dig into his soft flesh, making him groan out at the ownership inherent in the touch. 

“I’m not putting away the crop, you know,” Dream warns, dark and swirling and dangerous. “So you’d better be a good slut and obey me.”

Raging carnelian paints the highs and the flats of George’s cheeks, creeping down his neck until he’s sure it blends in with the sizzling pink marks Dream had left behind all over his torso. “I will, I promise. Please, use me, sir.”

Dream pushes flush to him, the head of his cock absolutely seering where it presses against slick skin. “Is that what you want, baby? Want me to split you open?”

He wants— no, needs — to drive his hips down in order to finally get what he came here for, but punishment would only delay his own satisfaction. “I need your cock, please, please; need you inside of me—”

“It doesn’t matter what you want. It only matters what I want, you understand? You’re only getting this because I want to fuck you,” Dream cuts him off, words barbed and hands vicious as they grip him with a newly bruising force. “I don’t give a fuck what you want tonight. You please me, do you understand?”

Regardless of how much his straining cock is ignored, George doesn’t think he’ll last very long at all and he knows Dream knows it, too. “Yes, sir.”

With that piece of consent, Dream presses forward, the thick length of his cock splitting him open and plastering his head to the mattress as he moans out his relief. He doesn’t bottom out quite as quickly as he had in times past, thankfully giving him a moment to adjust after admittedly rushed prep before he starts to move. The pace that he sets once he does, though, is unforgiving. 

George fingers scrabble to wrap around the latticework between his wrist, desperate to hold onto something, anything, to ground him as he’s finally fucked with just as much roughness as he’d asked for. 

“So tight,” Dream sighs, clearly satisfied with the feeling wrapped around him as he starts to pick up speed. “Still feels like I’m the first man who’s fucked you.”

There isn’t really a response to that which won’t lead to another sharp bruise being stamped into his already abused skin, so George just abandons himself to it, crying out when Dream brushes against his prostate and babbling for more, hardly sensical despite the fact they’ve only just properly started. The pain from earlier had riled him up to such an extent that he’s sure his cock is flushed a furious red where it bobs against his stomach, and the casual coarseness that Dream is treating him with now that he’s actually inside of him certainly isn’t helping him maintain any of his sanity. 

“Fuck,” George chokes out, suffering as Dream drags along exactly where he needs it right off the bat. Normally, he took the care to draw things out for a while, avoiding where he knows George actually wanted the stimulation, but he’s targeting him tonight. The assault is direct and merciless. “Please, you’re- it’s too much.”

Dream doesn’t relent, only scoffing. “Too much what, baby?” He teases, shifting his hips so that it’s all the more torturous to George, who’s so tied up that he can’t arch even in the slightest without the sweet bite of rope chafing against his skin. 

The intensity of the pleasure so immediately leaves him absolutely reeling, the world sliping diaphanous and sheer between his hands. “Too- too good. Please, it’s too much.”

“Oh? Too good?” Dream drawls, snapping his hips until the filthy sound of skin hitting skin fills the room. “I have a solution for that.”

The solution, of course, is pain; although, all things considered, he isn’t sure that the bright lick of the crop helps distract him from his burning arousal at this point. He hopes that the walls of Dream’s flat aren’t particularly thin, because he howls as agony mixes with ecstasy.

Euphoria is cresting through the electrified branches of his nerves, all-encompassing and singing with a sweetly blazing heat. Confusion wracks his body in tandem as he’s stuck in the vicious push-and-pull of indecision. Does he dive headfirst into it or does he draw away? Does he cry out for more or does he beg for it to stop? Backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards; the complicated dance of lechery plays out in his mind, and he has no idea which steps are meant to be his and which are meant to be Dream’s. It’s so easy to fall into his patterns, drowning in sin.

“You’re mine,” Dream growls, low and dangerous. There’s a desperately possessive edge to it that makes something deep inside of him spark. “No one else can have you like this; no one else gets to see you like this, like the needy, desperate fucking mess that you are. I own you, George.” He’s driving into him with a degree of absolute control so intense that George’s legs start to tremble in their unyielding restraints. 

Summoning the rational self control to form coherent sentences is far beyond him at this point, and all that he can do is let his mouth fall open and take it. The hands on his hips are past rough, grip bruising and leaving sweet scarlet trails from neatly-trimmed fingernails until George is certain his skin there will look like it’s been dipped in several wells’ worth of ink come morning. Any attempts to hold onto his sanity are frayed and half-hearted at best, mind swimming from endorphins running ravage in his blood that eclipse any of their past nights together in their intensity. 

He’s light-headed from it all. 

That feeling only grows stronger when deft fingers come to slip the pin of the collar free before taking a tight hold on the lead and pulling hard. George can’t scream from it since the pressure around his throat hardly lets air escape, but he’s sure the choking gasps he manages are reaction enough, if the dark hum which leaves Dream’s mouth means anything. His toes curl from his oxygen being cut off and, as the moments turn to seconds, a violent pleasure slams into his hips and they start to quake uncontrollably. Overwhelmed in the most beautifully possible of ways, tears slip from his eyes as floaters start to swim in his blackened vision and he can feel his cock twitch, right on the razor’s edge of coming. 

But, Dream lets the lead fall lax, and oxygen is flooding his lungs once again, the feeling evaporating from his hips and yanking him back from the ledge once again. He wants to sob at the loss, but Dream’s sharp thrusts manage to distract him once again as his hips slam into the back of George’s thighs. 

“D-Dream, oh, please!” He moans out, entirely shameless. “Please, choke me again. Please, sir, I-I’m begging you.”

The blond removes some of the slack, likely wrapping it around his closed fist several times, but he makes no move to pull again. Soft puffs of exertion drip from Dream’s lips. “And why should I do that? It’s a pain for me, you know. Distracts me from fucking you.”

George’s chest is wracked with a frustrated sob, wishing that he could yank his head back far enough to apply that syrupy sweet pressure to the arteries framing his windpipe, but he’s far too caught in Dream’s cotton webs. “I’m so close, please—”

“Already?” He mocks, continuing the targeted and unbearable force that only drags George closer and closer to his edge. “God, I treat you like shit, and you’re going to finish so early, like a fucking teenager. So filthy.”

He warbles some litany of pathetic excuses, oscillating between burning shame and blanket avoidance as he feels himself clench tightly around Dream. He’s teetering on an edge, and all he needs is just a little more: one more tightening of the collar-turned-slipknot around his neck to make his lungs tremble and the coil inside of him snap with a gentle violence. 

One of Dream’s thumbs swipes down to dig hard into a mark he’d already left— so long ago at this point— and causes a bloom of cortisol to explode in his blood as tender aching overtakes him. He’s fighting fading rationality as he’s lavished in rapture: used like he’s nothing at all and every centimeter of his hypersensitive skin aching. 

“Well,” Dream starts, lifting George’s hips just slightly and making fireworks streak toward the sky painted behind the silk he wears. “You know what? I’ll let you go ahead and make a mess of yourself. You always get so tight around me when you come, anyway. I’m not done with you, though; get that into your head.”

George gasps out his obedience, and they’re the last words that Dream grants him before he’s pulling, hard, on the lead again. It’s not only enough to completely tighten the now-slack collar, but it’s also enough to tug his whole body upward, heading tipping back as any and all reactions are cut from his throat. Dream holds him there, his other hand not wavering where it paints bruises onto his right hip, and doesn’t stop his thrusts, seeking his own pleasure while almost entirely ignorant of George’s. Nonetheless, pearls of precum slide down his shaft at the recognition.

---

lots of people find pleasure in that

being used I mean

sex is give and take but sometimes it’s nice just to have someone ignore that for a sec

…

you’re getting off on that idea of being ignored

like you’re still technically taking but it’s only because the other person is doing nothing but taking themselves

…

would you like that george? if I used you?

---

The first ten seconds of cut off air don’t feel like much: it’s the exact same as holding his breath when diving underwater or walking past some mysterious horror in the city air. When it crosses over into twenty, his heart flutters in his chest as his lungs start to complain, electricity just beginning to softly stir in his chest and send quakes racing down to his spread thighs. Dream perches between them with an air of confidence and self-satisfaction that George can feel pouring from him in torrents, his soft moans and hisses leaving split lips as he uses the brunet’s smaller body to pleasure himself. His grip on the lead is steadfast.

He hits thirty seconds, and the shaking in his hips turns violent, not even abated by Dream holding him still. George’s toes curl against nothing and his head starts to float above the clouds as his eyes roll back and slip shut in tandem. 

He’s stuck in the crossfire of panic and pleasure, his body completely confused as his brain sends out screaming warning signals that are only met with aching pleasure as Dream fucks him into the mattress with an unbearable amount of attunement. He’s completely out of control of himself, in every meaning of the phrase. Adrenaline turns to sweet convulsions and cortisol turns to oxytocin, and it’s just far too much . 

George makes no sound when he comes, not even a strangled groan leaving his mouth. All that he does is arch his back in a silent, desperate, scraping yes! as Dream releases the pressure on his windpipe and oxygen rushes back into his aching lungs. Endorphins boil over with such intensity that he can practically feel them coursing downward and sending him over the edge at long last. 

He feels every bit of his release from his throbbing cock as he paints his stomach, his chest, and the ropes which adorn them. Desperate, gasping breaths accompanying each new twitch from below as his pleasure sings out its final notes: high and clear and ringing in his head like the shrill call of a bell. Every time Dream makes him shatter to a thousand and one pieces, it feels different, somehow.

La petite mort , they called it . Dream has shown him just what that means.

As he swims in his own ocean of sentiment, he gradually becomes aware of the fact that the man responsible for taking him apart so expertly is still driving into him with just as much enthusiasm as before, the sounds of their hips colliding absolutely obscene and serving as the accompaniment to George’s gasping and Dream’s low moans as he works himself closer. He’s well on his way into the territory of overstimulation, but the rest of his body has enough flashing points of singing ache that he can hardly differentiate it from the rest, fading into that aureate fog of orgasm laced with agony. 

“I have to admit,” Dream heaves, bottoming out momentarily and grinding against him in the cruelest way. “I’m only here for myself tonight, but, fuck, you look so lewd like this. And those noises you make… god, baby: the things you do to me.”

George groans out a trembling response, more tears slipping into his blindfold as he tries to hold onto his grip on rationality. Less lost to pleasure, he can already tell that the ache is going to be bad tomorrow morning: all over his body, from his neck, which is undoubtedly just a bit bruised since it hadn’t been Dream’s careful hands asphyxiating him this time, down to his thighs. There would also probably be rope burn down to his ankles, if his desperate strains against his binds meant anything. God, he would be so marked up and owned and—

“Close,” The blond grunts, lifting George’s further, which immediately makes him tighten around Dream’s cock; it’s probably exactly what he wanted. “Can’t wait to see my cum leak out of you, you desperate slut. You never look better than that, baby.”

He hasn’t spoken in some time, but he finds words again just as he starts to take individual bricks out of the wall of lust he’s been trapped in for god only knows how long. “Please,” George begs, directing his obscured eyes toward Dream, who’s leaning over him more now to get better leverage as he fucks into him. He makes sure to put every ounce of raging satisfaction into his tone and say the next words with as much seduction as he can muster in this state. “Need to feel you.”

The admission is just what Dream needs, and it’s only a few more harsh thrusts later that he stills, sharp moans and gasps of George’s name leaving his mouth. He can feel sinful warmth flood him as Dream’s hips stutter, and the sensation makes him moan softly, so unlike anything else. He slowly fucks himself through it, pace cut into a tenth of what it had been earlier, until he stops moving entirely.

“Fuck,” He pants, leaning against the mattress and hovering over George while he catches his breath. “You okay?”

George nods, but he’s still in a daze. “I’m… overwhelmed, but ‘m fine.”

Dream looks down at him and brings up a hand to push up the blindfold and stroke his cheek, which he melts into more easily than he breathes. The room has been dimmed again so that he’s not blinded, but readjusting to anything other than the black cloak of silk is still an adjustment, nonetheless. “I need a minute,” Dream wheezes a gentle laugh, warm and golden in his chest. “Fuck, I came so hard.”

George takes a moment to be pleased with himself about that, knowing that, while he might be completely disassembled every time Dream threw him into his bed, he ruined the other a bit, too. “Did you, now?”

“I just punished you so much, and yet you still have the audacity to be bratty?” Dream pulls out and flops, boneless, to his side as he fights to get his heart rate under control. “God, you’re something else.”

He murmurs out a giggle, bubbling weakly in his throat, as he recognizes the fondness in Dream’s tone. “Can you please untie me?” George asks, wiggling against the sheets. “I think my hands are just about as asleep as a limb can possibly be.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dream sits up, swiping long fingers through golden hair as he regains his bearings. “Just… that was really fucking good. You know I’m usually a bit more put together than this after.”

Gentle hands start to reverse the process they’d executed earlier, the knots adorning his legs giving way in a slow procession of care. As he’s freed, the sharp ache in the joints of his knees makes itself known but, the moment he groans at the crack that follows, Dream slowly stretches his leg out and rubs soft circles up and down his rope-burnt flesh. He digs thumbs exactly where it hurts but, unlike earlier, it’s not to increase pain, but to soothe it. 

“Oh, god, that’s nice.” He feels like he’s getting an actual massage, except that he doesn’t have to restrain himself from accidentally moaning while a stranger touches him in a completely innocent manner. 

“Yeah?” Dream asks, working down to his equally stiff ankles. “Those kinds of positions can be tough on your joints and you were like that for— god, what time is it?” His gaze flicks off to the side, where George remembers an alarm clock lays. “A little over an hour. You’re gonna be stiff in the morning, baby; sorry.”

George moans out his gentle, thrumming satisfaction as Dream switches to his other leg, repeating the same process with so much tenderness that he finds himself growing desperately drowsy. “It’s okay,” He grumbles, eyelids flickering. “Worth it.”

“Was it good for you?” Dream asks, as he always does, as he finally sits him up to free his hopelessly bound arms. He almost wants to ask him to take a picture of the latticework so that George can see it for himself, but the thought of photographic proof of this existing makes him burn with embarrassment. 

He nods, shoulders slumping as more and more lax is introduced into the cotton line. “Gave me what I needed.”

Lips are pressed to the back of his neck— damp with sweat and a few tears that had made impressively long journeys— and his posture only droops further. “I’m glad I could.” 

There isn’t any more conversation between them as Dream slowly frees the rest of his arms, gently kneading the pinkened flesh as he goes. His wrists are, in fact, hopelessly asleep and he spends far too long waving his hands around on the bed in vain attempts to get his nerves to work again. They’re already sputtering in the fallout of all the things he’d just put his sore body through, and he knows he’s asking a lot of them. Once he can move his fingers and actually feel it, Dream carefully lowers him back to the mattress, which he obeys with no resistance. He feels like his bone marrow has been reduced to gelatin. He unclasps the lead from his throat and goes to undo the collar, but George whines loudly, stopping him. 

“Want to keep it on for a bit?” He asks, clearly a bit puzzled.

George nods, though, and meets his eyes with blush on his face. “I like the way it feels; a lot.”

“Are you sure?” Dream checks, fingers tracing the edges of the leather. “It must be a bit hot by now.”

He pushes into his touch, hoping that it’s response enough, and it is. He waits for Dream to join him in lying down but, rather than just hold him, the blond stays perched just slightly above him, forming a box around his body as he leans down.

George gasps out softly, sweet music falling from his lips, as delicate kisses are pressed to the abused flesh of his throat, tracing the collar and the damage he’d left himself. Large hands splay across his waist in tandem, holding him carefully as Dream continues his quiet worship, soothing his lips and tongue down the slashes left by the riding crop that mark their way from his chest to the lows of his hips, right where they blend into his thighs. He can feel where his tongue licks George’s cum from his own skin. God, that’s gorgeously filthy.

“Dream…” He sighs out, feeling like putty in his hold. “I’m- I don’t think I can go another round. Too worn out for it, I’m sorry.”

The blond leaves a sweet kiss on his inner thigh, right over a screaming mark from the crop earlier, before looking up at him. “I don’t want to go again,” He explains, soft fondness painted all over his face as he perches between his legs. “Just expressing my appreciation.” With that, Dream resumes his activities and continues to dampen his overly sensitive flesh with tenderness. 

George starts to tremble but, unlike usual, it’s not from arousal. His fingers have been scrabbling at the sheets to keep him grounded as a rising tide of desperate affection begins to fill his chest, but he finally gives in and goes to grasp for one of Dream’s hands, where it lays in the dip of his waist. It only takes a moment for the other’s palm to flip, fingers entwining with George’s until they almost cover his entirely. 

“So pretty,” Dream murmurs, kissing low on his stomach and gently squeezing his hand. “So lovely for me, honey.”

George flushes at the praise, more embarrassed now that his mind isn’t shot through with lust. He relishes it nonetheless, muted sighs filling the air between them as Dream works in silence. It’s breathtakingly tender and, if this were any other situation, he could almost call it loving. 

“Oh…” It’s more breath than a word, spreading into the air in a way that’s hardly audible, but he knows Dream hears him from the smile he can feel spreading against his navel. 

The blond kisses his way back up, hands still lingering on his body, and it takes every ounce of self control to not surge forward and capture Dream’s lips with his own. But, he reigns himself in and lets Dream collapse beside him, on his side with a hand still lingering heavy across his waist. 

“Still doing alright?” He murmurs, tracing the space between his hip bone and his last rib. 

George can’t help but laugh, and his voice is raspy when it comes to him again. “Dream, I don’t think I could walk right now if you paid me. I’m a mess— a very satisfied one, but a mess.”

His gaze softens at that. “I’m sorry, baby,” He sounds so sincere that it makes George’s sternum crack. “See, this is why I’m not usually this rough with you. It takes a lot out of you, you know? There has to be a balance.”

He nods, fighting the heaviness in his eyelids that he knows will eventually dissipate. “Yeah, I get it now. You’re still- you were good to me, though,” George admits. “Thank you for agreeing to do this tonight.”

The left corner of Dream’s mouth quirks up. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy myself, too,” He chuckles under his breath. “It’s fun getting to be a little mean to you.”

“A little mean?” He scoffs in response, just a bit incredulous. “A little mean?”

Dream wheezes, and George watches as his eyes crinkle beautifully shut. “Okay, maybe a lot mean, but my point still stands,” He cracks open his eyelids to reveal golden irises again. “And you did so good for me tonight; you really did.”

He glows under the praise, letting himself drown in it. “You, um, you mentioned that you had some leftovers for after? You’ve kind of left me a little bit starving, if I’m honest.”

“It’s nothing much,” Dream admits, laughing awkwardly. “Just pizza. Then again, I’m not usually in the mood for anything particularly fancy after a good fuck, so I hope you aren’t either.”

George hums out a negation. “No, ‘m not picky. Pizza sounds great.”

Wordlessly, Dream lets go of him and slips from the bed, finding his discarded underwear on the floor and slipping them on before going to rifle through one of his drawers. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he hops back onto the bed, a bundle of light gray fabric in his arms. “Here, baby, we’ve got to keep you nice and warm; you know I like the house cold.”

He accepts the sweatshirt being slipped over his head without an ounce of resistance, fitting his arms into sleeves that are far too large for his body. It’s worse than the jumper he’d given him the other week, absolutely swallowing him whole, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t envelop him in a few different types of warmth.

“How’re those legs of yours?” Dream asks, glancing fingers along the bruised and rope-burnt expanses of his thighs. 

George shifts so that his legs dangle from the bed and he can stand. His hips are wildly shaky as he finally settles his weight fully into standing, and he grabs for Dream to balance himself, who meets him with steadiness and a hand on his hip. The sweatshirt falls halfway down his thighs. “Historically, I’ve been better,” He gripes, but it’s light-hearted. “Jesus Christ, I’m so shaky.”

He might be unsteady, but he can walk. He just wants Dream to carry him again; is that such a sin?

Thankfully, his acting seems to have been convincing enough, because Dream stoops down so that he can return back to standing with George in his arms. He clutches at his shoulders, burying his face into his bare neck, and settles comfortably into his arms. “Where’re we headed?” He murmurs into his salted skin.

“ You are going on the couch,” Dream explains as he begins to exit the bedroom, bare feet padding softly against the floor. “I’m going to heat up dinner. Well, it’s kind of late to technically be dinner, but I don’t know what else to call it.”

“M’kay.” Is the only response he can summon, still hanging in suspension from the past hour. 

George knows there’s no way to ice this one away, so he’ll just have to deal with the ache he can already feel starting to settle deep in his bones. It will probably only be worse in the morning, when his burst capillaries have had time to fully bleed out underneath his skin and dye him purple and blue and pink. He’ll be happy to wake up in Dream’s arms, and he will absolutely take full advantage of being able to wrap around him and grumble into his chest. He’s found it’s easy to rouse sympathy from Dream, especially when he was the cause, and the other is more than willing to indulge him for it. 

He’s loath to leave the blond’s embrace when he’s placed down onto the couch, and whines out softly. 

“Hey, hey,” Dream coos, hands soothing along his back. “Give me five minutes. I’ll be right back, I promise. I’ll bring you some painkillers, too.”

George digs his fingers into the other’s bare arms. “I don’t like being alone right after.” He complains, exposing his own vulnerability more than he wants to. 

Dream’s eyes meet his with a beautiful tenderness that makes his breath catch. “I know, honey,” A hand trails along his stubbled jaw: cloyingly kind. “But, you said you’re hungry, and I want to take care of you. That means more than just holding you. I’ll be ten feet away; let me get you dinner, and then I’ll be right next to you as long as you need, okay?”

He hates feeling so fucking sappy, but the excessive harshness has left him desperately craving, and it takes effort to not let tears bead in his eyes. George can’t stop a soft sniffle that breaks through, though. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just being clingy.”

“Oh, baby, you don’t need to apologize,” His voice makes him feel like he’s basking in sunlight. “I was hard on you tonight. Just let me do this one thing, and then I’ll give you everything that you want.”

Dream waits for him to nod and finally withdraws, leaving George to wrap his arms around his tender legs and lean against the couch. He can only wait, head nodding back until it collides soft with the back cushion while he listens to the soft sounds of culinary domesticity. 

Letting his eyes flutter shut is as natural as can be, and sounds begin to blur around him as the adrenaline in his veins lowers its tempo and leaves him exhausted. He tries to ignore the aching slashes decorating his body and instead focus on the phantom glances of Dream’s lips where they’d lingered on his skin: sweet declarations of care. 

Truth be told, he doesn’t even notice that he was dozing until his shoulder is softly jostled and the smell of pizza whafts into the air surrounding him. “I know you’re tired, but you should eat something.”

“Yeah, sorry,” George scrubs at his eyes and accepts the plate that’s handed to him, scooting over just enough to let Dream settle next to him. “I think I just need to stay awake for, like… twenty minutes, and then I’ll be fine.”

The taller relaxes into the curve of the couch, wrapping his non-dominant arm around George’s waist and pulling him close with sweet casualty. 

“Aren’t you cold?” George snipes, eyes lustfully raking over the exposed contours of his body. “You made such a fuss about getting me in this sweatshirt. Or did you just want to see me in your clothes?” He peers up at Dream through dark lashes, knowing that it makes his gaze look significantly heavier with an undercurrent of desire than it really is.

It hits the mark he wants when he sees Dream’s cheeks take on color. “Well, I—” He sputters, fingers worrying along the rim of his dinner plate. “My body temperature always runs hot. And you- yours, well, doesn’t. I mean, every time you’re here, I’m the one providing probably ninety percent of the body heat in bed when—”

“Dream,” George interrupts, bopping his head against his broad shoulder before taking a bite out of his dinner. “I’m just teasing.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Dream wheezes, easily laughing off the moment and forcing it into his memory. “You really are a brat, huh?”

“You’ve disciplined me enough tonight,” He japes, taking the hand Dream has around his waist and dragging it to the screaming remains of the crop for emphasis. “So unless your punishment for me being an ass is to give me a proper massage, you can just keep that one to yourself. We’re out of the bedroom.” He has to stop himself from tacking on a pet name to the end of it; Dream might be able to breathe that kind of affection as easily as taking in sunlight, but it would be far too much for George to handle saying, himself. 

Dream shrugs, but concedes. “Alright, that’s fair. If you want me to feel you up again though, baby,” His voice drops an octave, until it’s that pleasant rumble that echoes in George’s chest. “You just have to ask.”

Oh, he just wants to combust. “You’re such an idiot.”

The blond thankfully lets the moment fade before George’s cheeks can catch fire.

They eat their pizza together, Dream slowly drawing him closer and closer until, by the time he’s finished his plate, George is practically sitting, drowsy and aching, in his lap. Dream is right— he’s ridiculously warm despite wearing so little clothing— and he melts into his temperate hold so easily that it just feels natural. He takes a moment of courage and imprints a short trail of kisses down Dream’s neck that culminates in, at long last, George laying a mark of his own on Dream as he lightly takes flesh in between his teeth and sucks.

The gasp he receives in response makes something inside of him spark, and he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that Dream had forgotten to clean up the mess he’d left between his legs. “Oh, George—” 

“Is that a good ‘oh, George,’ or did I overstep?” He murmurs, not looking up out of fear of rejection. 

He feels him swallow as his Adam’s apple bobs against George’s lips, but he eventually answers “It’s good, but you- you really don’t have to. That’s my job.” There’s something strange and distant in his voice that almost makes him fearful. 

Dream hadn’t said no, but he pulls away. He can tell that he’s pushing something; what exactly that is, George isn’t sure, but he knows better. He isn’t a fool, and their boundaries have to be stricter than most. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dream answers, almost too immediately. “You never need to apologize, doll.”

There’s nothing that George hates more than awkward silences, especially ones rife with something indescribable and all too temperamental for him to tackle, so he bowls into the next subject. “I know I said I could stay awake, but I think you just took too much out of me. Can we just go to bed?”

Instead of giving him words spoken in that beautiful lilt of his, Dream shifts his pliant body so that he can gather him in his arms again. George feels so small in his hold, and he absolutely relishes the sensation, all lithe limbs bundled in the arms of lean muscle. It’s easy for him to lean into his shoulder and forget the awkwardness they’re chasing; it’s easy for him to drown in his warmth as he’s swept under the covers; it’s easy for him to wrap his legs around the other’s hips and let himself be drawn close; it’s easy to be swallowed by Dream’s sweatshirt, still smelling of his cologne. 

It’s also easy for him to remember how Dream had shuddered beneath him, and how he’d looked with blush on his face: blush that George had caused. 

He tries to focus on the still-throbbing stripes of skin littering his torso, but he falls asleep with visions of golden eyes and cheeks dusted in freckles instead. It doesn’t matter how many times he desperately squeezes his eyes shut; they refuse to leave him.

Notes:

I’ve seen a weirdly high number of collaring fics on mcyt ao3, so it only felt right to dedicate a bit of this fic to the same lol.

Chapter title is from Poppy’s song Sit / Stay (chosen for obvious reasons lol) from I Disagree. It’s technically about the controlling nature of the music industry but it absolutely SLAPS and is also pretty much about getting collared so… I couldn’t refuse, really. (it is one of the lightest songs on the album tho so if you’re not into loud shit, maybe steer clear haha)

I am SO fucking excited for next chapter; it’s going to be an absolute BANGER, and I think you’ll feel the same :)

Follow me on twitter for updates, general bullshit, and eventually art, or add me on discord if you want to chat (ess#9291)!

 

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Chapter 7: To Be Beautiful (For You)

Summary:

George wants to see him crack. For just a moment, he wants to see Dream not just as someone to dominate him, but to just see him as a man: as someone who lusts and adores and hungers, and George wants to be the object of all of it. He thinks that he might know how.

Notes:

Ho BOY did I have fun writing this one. It’s time to start Pining, and it’s time to start pining hard. My overwhelming lesbianism is also on display in this one folks lmao

There's an incredible piece of fanart that someone made for this chapter too!! You're all incredible!!!!

Thank you to my marvelous beta readers (find them on my carrd!):
-snap (i owe her my life this chapter holy shit)
-blackberry/dnf_fics
-and bri

Usual stuff to finish: don’t repost, don’t share to CCs, and if their boundaries change, this will be immediately taken down in accordance.

When the package arrives, he feels curiosity, he feels anticipation, but, most of all, he feels a hot flicker of shame mixing with arousal. 

It had come about when he had anticipated. The night after his first video call with Dream, he’d spent several hours on the internet while ideas coursed through his head until he found something he liked, entered his credit card details, and waited. It had been a rush of impulse.  You’re really pretty, George , he’d said. Now, four weeks of custom tailoring later and about a week after his last exhausting encounter with Dream, he holds a cardboard box in his slim arms. 

It had drained more from his bank account than he cared to admit, but he made a good salary and, with his long hours, it wasn’t like he would be using the pay to jetset around the world. 

So, why not spend it on obscenely expensive lingerie?

George had never bought anything even remotely like it, especially not in such a… kinky style. The thought of even just lace had filled him with some ungodly mixture of embarrassment and trepidation so, even though he lives alone, when he retreats to his bedroom with a boxcutter in hand, he closes the door behind him.

The package is doubly wrapped, with the dull outer cardboard shell giving way to reveal a matte black box, elegant in its simplicity and tied in a dark silk ribbon sporadically dotted with the strap closures he knew also adorned the products it held. It’s beautiful packaging, but he slips a finger underneath the ribbon nonetheless so that he can finally pop open the lid. 

He knows exactly what’s inside—he’d spent hours picking them out, after all— but the reveal still makes his breath catch. Inside is a corset, made of beautiful materials and made well , ebony panels of leather reinforced by steel boning. Black silk spills from its back, the ribbons of the lacing glinting dully in the white wash of his ceiling fan light. He picks it up in a state of slight awe, the leather even softer than he’d imagined between his fingers, but knows that ultimately he’ll have more time to investigate later, so he sets it down atop his bed and reaches for the next item. 

It’s undoubtedly the most scandalous of what he’d purchased, and just seeing it again makes his face flush crimson. It’s an elaborate, mostly sheer pair of underwear whose side straps mimic the ropes that Dream ties him with so prettily. It feels somehow even more scant now that it’s in his hands than when he had first looked at it on the website. It was sheer enough that you would be able to see his cock, even when he wasn’t hard, and he felt his mouth water at the thought of what it would look like when he was . He wasn’t as impressive as someone like Dream in the size department, but he wasn’t nothing to write home about, either. Would he even still fit when he was throbbing and pent up? Would he seep straight through the material?

He has to swallow and shake his head. He’s evaluating not insignificant purchases: he needs to not be so sloshed in self-gratification when he judges them. 

George sets the lewd item to the side and picks up the final buys. A pair of simple, sheer, black thigh-high stockings stares back at him, cuffed with silk and sat right next to a set of garters: gorgeously complicated-looking, strappy things that complemented the underwear he’d bought. They’re so tame in comparison that they almost feel practical. 

Now that his purchases are laid out before him, there’s only one thing to do before he shows up at Dream’s flat wearing them: give them a test run. 

He slips off the soft pair of house pants that he’s wearing, along with his sweatshirt, not yet feeling quite bold enough to remove his boxers. His torso is still licked with the litany of bruises that Dream had stamped him with last time around, and going to cover all of those marks back up almost feels like a sin. The corset comes first, and he blushes again as he recalls the quite frankly silly amount of research he’d done to make sure he put it on properly, spending much too long down a rabbit hole of historical fashion-turned more erotic. 

After easing open the lacing running down the back, he slips the leather over his head and down until it settles beneath his pectorals, just on the slight crook of his waist. George contorts behind him so that he can see the mess of ribbons running down his back in the mirror. First, he carefully tightens the lacing at the very top and the bottom until the corset is pulled snug against his skin, but not uncomfortably tight. He continues his way down (and up) until all of the ribbons are flush to his body, and his fingers come to rest on the long tails that remain in the exact center. He pulls. 

It’s not like he doesn’t expect the sweet tightening that comes with it, but it makes his lungs hitch regardless. It reminds him of the bite of Dream’s ropes, and he has to try and keep his thoughts from running rampant. He ties himself off, and turns to look at himself in the mirror, running his hands carefully down his sides, breath stuttering when he reaches the slightly more emphasized dent of his waist. He’s never quite felt like this before. 

Feeling newly confident, he knows that it’s time for the next piece of the ensemble, and takes in a breath of courage before hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down. He reaches for the stockings, perching his bare ass on the edge of the bed and bunching up the sleeves of fabric so he can pull them up all at once. He knows that he’ll have to shave his legs before Saturday, but he’s fine for now. The mesh is so delicate that he’s terrified of tearing it, and works it up his leg with caution, until the cuff comes to rest halfway up his thigh, just slightly squeezing the flesh there. The fabric is such a foreign sensation against his skin, but he doesn’t dislike it. He repeats with his other leg, until a matching strip of silk adorns both thighs. He briefly fiddles with the cuff, rubbing it between his fingers, before he stands again, grabbing for the garters. 

They’re strappy and complicated, but George finds the clasp in the back and slips it around his waist; the corset has slimmed him enough that he needs to tighten the suspenders a bit. Beyond the straps, two ribbons dangle from the main body of the garters until they dust his thighs: a pair in the front, and a pair in the back. They frame his bare cock nicely, and he has to remind himself that this is just a session trying on clothes, nothing else, nope. 

It takes him a few moments to figure out how exactly the little clasps on the end function. He eventually works out that they’re meant to press the fabric of the stockings together, catching it so that they stay held up. Once he maneuvers the cuffs, both in the front and the back, he finally takes the skimpy garment in hand— the last item— and stares. He spreads his fingers so that he can step into the material, and it takes him a minute, the bundle of decorative straps on the sides causing him to slip his feet in the wrong way a few times. Eventually, he gets the hang of it and pulls the underwear up, up, up until they settle on his hips. The triangle of fabric is tiny but, between his own careful maneuvering and the fact that he intentionally bought a size larger than what he needed, it should be enough to cover him. He goes about adjusting the straps until they’re snug against his skin, but not too tight.

He takes a deep breath and turns toward his mirror, and what he sees causes his lungs to seize immediately. “Holy shit.” He whispers, tracing his hands down his sides. 

He’s never seen himself like this. The stockings make his slim legs look longer, the corset accentuates the dips of his waist, the garters draw his eye along his figure, and the underwear leave him almost completely exposed. He looks… beautiful. 

George turns around to look at his ass; the brief is completely open in the back, with only silk straps suggesting an outline of what was meant to be there. It frames him well, accentuating the small amount of curve that he does have. He just slightly leans over, turning crimson at the ease of access. Dream would just have to bend him over and he could have anything he wants. It gives him an idea, and his mind flashes back to the little toy Dream had left with him. How irresistible would he be if he went all the way to Dream’s flat with it inside of him?

Why is he doing this? This is the sort of thing that you do for a significant other, to show them how much you appreciate them. What’s the reason he’s going through all of this trouble for Dream? 

There’s a part of him that wants more than what he has, and he has no choice but to acknowledge it at this point. Dream is attractive, he’s funny, and, sometimes, George just wants him to kiss him breathless. He knows that this is just an exchange of needs, that they’re hooking up because they’re good like this and they both get what they want, but he can’t help the parts of him that crave something more affectionate. For once, he wants to see Dream flustered, overwhelmed because of George. He wants to see his control crack for just a moment, and let vulnerability in; and he wants to be the cause of it. He doesn’t just want Dream to want him; he wants Dream to crave him. He wants Dream to eat him alive. 

---

A part of George had only wanted to wear the ankle-length coat and socks but, thankfully, the more rational side of him had won out in the end, and he’s at least wearing pants. 

He’s never wanted a train ride to be over so quickly in his life. He normally loves to sit on the subway— the great, shuddering tin snake that it is— and watch a world’s worth of people pass him by, but his stomach is roiling with anticipation. He has to keep plunging his thoughts in cold water as he thinks about what he has on just under his coat: only a thin veneer of wool and buttons separating his secret from the world. He’d gotten a bit worked up when he’d prepped himself and slipped the toy Dream had left back inside of him, but he’d managed to calm himself down enough for his hard-on to fade. Still, the desire lingered. 

Finally, finally , the train reaches his stop, and he emerges back into the world above. Dream lives in an area that’s much more downtown than where his own flat is, and it buzzes with the constant vivacity of life. George loves the energy of the metropolitan core, and he lets contentment wash over him as he walks down sidewalks filled with music and conversation leaking from shop doors and outdoor patios. Dream’s flat isn’t all that far from the station, so he doesn’t get to bask for very long in the hum of the mundane. Before he even knows it, he’s turning the corner onto a slightly quieter, mostly residential street, and he’s standing in front of Dream’s callbox.

He presses the buzzer, still startled by the noise no matter how many times he presses it for how many people, and lingers. Dream is (usually) good about never keeping him waiting, and it’s only about thirty seconds before the blond pops out of his front door and opens the gate. 

“Fuck, it’s cold today, huh?” Dream asks, not wearing a jacket. The V-neck of his jumper is just a bit lower than he would have expected, giving George a tantalizing view of the swell of his chest.

George nods, shivering despite his coat. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact he’s practically naked beneath it. “Yeah, we’ve been going through a bit of a cold snap. My heating bill’s seen better days, I can say that much.”

Dream laughs quietly, and they continue their way up his stairs making menial smalltalk. The other man talks with his hands, and it makes sense for him: he’s always moving, always chatty, always filled with energy. Of course that would spill over into his limbs. They continue to talk about the mundane until Dream opens his front door with an over-dramatic flourish, ushering George in as he softly laughs. 

“Can I take your coat or something?” He asks as they toe their shoes off, always the gentleman. 

“Actually, I um—” He tries to unscramble his thoughts. “I know you usually go back first, but could I just have a minute? On my own?”

Dream looks at him with curiosity, but knows better than to push. “Yeah, sure. Just let me know when you’re ready,” He lets his head resume its normal tilt. “I know we normally talk a bit beforehand, but I’m guessing you just want to get right to it tonight? Or…” He trails off, just a bit sheepish. 

But, George nods, reassuring. “I trust you.” Is all he says. 

The other’s face flashes with a warm affection, but he steps away to mess about in his kitchen, leaving George to retreat to the bedroom. 

He closes the door behind him, leaning against it and taking a breath of courage. George’s fingers come to the buttons of his coat, mostly decorative, and he undoes all of them before pulling down the zipper that lies beneath. The coat slips from his shoulders, revealing his half-bare back and the soft panels of the corset stretched between steel bones, and he folds it before carefully placing it atop Dream’s dresser, as though this were the most normal thing in the world. His socks are next, tugged off to reveal the slippery fabric of the stockings that lie underneath. Then, he holds his breath and hooks his thumbs under his waistband, pulling down until he can kick his pants off and fold them, as well. George turns and walks toward the mirror that Dream has propped up in the corner of the room, and examines himself. 

He looks good, he looks really fucking good. He feels good like this. He just wants to make Dream’s cool, confident façade crack for just a moment, and how could the other say no to him like this?

He’s about to go back to the door, to open it and call for Dream, but something catches his eye. On the corner of Dream’s dresser, beneath the simple lamp is a small, square glass bottle, a watch, and, oddly enough, a handful of stones, smoothed from worry. He picks up the bottle and carefully lifts it to his nose so he can breathe in the scent. He recognizes the heady smell from whenever Dream had drawn close to his neck. 

It’s his cologne. 

George has an idea and, without putting too much thought into it lest he back out, he quickly sprays the liquid on his wrists before rubbing them together, and then briefly underneath his ears. Just as he’s setting the bottle back, there are a few soft knocks against the door. 

“Hey, George, you okay?” Dream calls from the hallway, sounding genuine. “You’ve been in there for a little while.” 

He approaches the door, and grabs for the knob. “Yeah, I was just about to get you.” With that, George pulls the door inward, stepping behind it as Dream wanders into the room. 

Dream first looks to the bed and the dresser, which are the more logical places for him to be found. As he does so, George closes the door behind him and leans against it. “I’m back here.” He says, getting his attention. 

Dream turns around, and his jaw immediately slackens and his eyes go wide. There it is: the crack. He’s awestruck. 

“Holy shit. Did you- did you do this for me?” He breathes out, stepping closer and crowding George against the door. 

He feels the wood pressing against the bare half of his back, and looks up at Dream, who’s so fucking close that he can see the specks of gold in his eyes. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” Dream repeats, hands encircling his waist and pulling him flush against him. “ Do I like it? Oh, baby.”

He’s hot where George’s body is pressed to him, and he trails his hands up and down his back, groping him through the corset. George feels like putty in his hold. Those large, goddamn hands of his continue to work along his skin, tracing bone with measured strokes. He’s quiet for a long while, simply exploring and touching George, until he leans down to press his lips to his throat. 

He comes to a dead halt before he makes contact and pulls back just slightly, fixing him with a dark gaze. “Is that my fucking cologne, George?”

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth momentarily and, for neither the first nor the last time, wishes he could press his mouth to Dream’s. “Yes.” He whispers. 

Dream doesn’t say anything directly, instead pushing a leg between George’s thighs, and letting his hands wander lower. George leans into his touch, while letting his head drop to the other’s shoulder as he finally feels a heavy grip close on his ass. Dream’s breath stutters as he realizes that the back of his brief is entirely open. “Jesus Christ.” He murmurs, groping George but softly; with reverence. 

George feels really fucking good. He’s gotten him to splinter: to slip for just a moment and see George as someone other than just a fuck. The touches he’s receiving aren’t those of ownership, but worship . 

He isn’t particularly caressing him in a way meant to arouse but, after a time, it starts to get to George, and the fact his barely-covered cock is pressed right against Dream isn’t helping. He releases a soft noise into Dream’s neck, and gently rubs against the leg conveniently pressed between his. The other responds by letting his hands creep lower than they had before: low enough that one of his fingers just barely nudges the base of the toy inside of him. George can’t stop the moan that spills from his mouth. 

“Holy fuck, George.” Dream murmurs as he realizes what exactly it is that he’s feeling. His fingers begin to rub slow circles over the silicon, shifting it inside of George in a way that makes him fucking keen. 

George has been scrabbling at the door for purchase, but it’s not enough, so he finally caves and wraps his arms around Dream’s waist, fisting the fabric of his jumper in an attempt to ground himself. He feels his cock getting hard, ticking against the mesh fabric in a way that’s almost sinful. Dream doesn’t stop him from touching this time, letting him feel the muscles of his back beneath his fingers, and George adores it. 

As Dream continues his movements, he continues his gasps, hips starting to move subconsciously against him. There are lips and teeth now on his neck, and Dream’s hands are growing bolder. They slip low, to his thighs and, almost before he can process it, Dream is hoisting him up and he practically slams him into the wall. George’s legs instinctively wrap around his waist in an effort to stabilize himself and he draws in quick breath out of shock. The other’s body is pressed against him, hips spreading his own open as the entirety of his barely-clad cock finds friction in the form of Dream’s abdomen. 

The man in question finally pulls away just enough to meet his gaze, and there’s a dark lust in his eyes, tempered by an awestruck respect. “Georgie, I’m not going to hurt you tonight,” Dream’s breath is hot on his throat. “But you’re gonna wish I was. I’m going to tease you until you lose your fucking mind.” 

George’s breath catches at the prospect. “Please, sir.” 

He feels Dream smile against him, and it’s hardly a moment later that he’s being hoisted away from the wall and thrown onto the bed. Dream is on top of him again in an instant, hands roughly spreading his thighs and caressing the tops of his stockings. George’s arms are still on him, climbing up his shoulders until they settle at the nape of his neck, playing with the strands of hair there. “You know what?” He says, gazing down at him with a great deal of fucking want. “I’m going to leave your lovely hands untied tonight.”

George tightens his grip in Dream’s hair in response. “What about my legs?”

“Oh, no,” Dream tuts, the hands that are spreading his thighs swiping lower to trace along the expanse of his stocking. “I can’t let you start thinking that you have control here, baby. No, no: I’ll tie your legs up real pretty.”

He lets out a groan at the prospect, and Dream slips down in tandem until he can kneel at the foot of the bed. “God, you look so gorgeous in these, but this is just the worst material for ropes. It’s so slippery: I’ll have to use an extra set of knots to make sure you stay safely in place.”

“I- I can take them off, if you want. If that’d be easier.”

Hands caress his calves and Dream’s lips press to the delicate bones of an ankle. “You put in all this effort to dress up for me, baby. I’ll tie as many knots as I need to keep you like this.” With that, he stands, retreating to his dresser to grab bundles of rope: less than usual on account of the fact only half of him is being bound tonight. 

Dream kneels back on the floor by the edge of the bed, talented hands tugging on George’s ankles just slightly to shift him down. He watches as crimson rope is looped around his ankle, tied and knotted, before it’s slipped under his heel to make a sort of harness; he guesses to combat the slick nature of the fabric. Dream continues for a few minutes, securing each of his ankles and tying them to the feet of the bed. “Pull for me.”

George obeys, tugging against the ties. They’re steadfast and the sensation makes him swallow. 

“Good boy,” He coos, caressing George’s thighs and crawling up the bed so he can perch between them. “God, you look so fucking incredible.” His voice is soft as he rearranges George just slightly so that his knees are bent and spread, and he has unrestricted access to his hips. 

He can feel his cock getting harder, slipping sideways in the scant underwear, but thankfully still contained within the fabric. He can also tell that he’s seeping precum through the mesh, and lives somewhere between embarrassed and painfully turned on. Dream definitely doesn’t help when he bends down and attaches his mouth to George’s neck. 

“Oh—” He gasps out, tangling his hands in Dream’s hair again. He loves this, finally able to touch and pull and feel . He’d been so deprived of physicality all the other times they’d been together: most because of tied hands, fewer because they were a dozen or a hundred miles apart. He is fucking living for this. 

Dream continues to trail bites and kisses along his neck, just starting to dip down his chest. For now, it feels good: a simmering, sanguine undercurrent of desire. He knows the blond will turn it into sweet torture in due time, but he lets himself enjoy it, for now. Unfortunately, or fortunately, for George, Dream’s mouth closes over one of his sensitive nipples. He keens, doing his best to guide the other’s head, even though he knows it’s futile. 

It goes on like this for god knows how long, Dream carefully working his way across his chest before his mouth is inevitably stopped by the leather of the corset. At this point, George is starting to tremble from his ministrations, and he knows his cock is straining enough that it’s lifting the fabric of his underwear away from his body. “Nnh, Dream, please.”

Dream’s hands fit in the notch of his waist and his fingers splay, taking in the sight like he’s an idol in his grasp. “Please, what?” His words emerge as a sharp curl of feigned ignorance. “I’m touching you, I’m giving you what you need. What else could you possibly want?” Before he lets George give him an answer, he slides further down, skipping over the corset and George’s neglected cock entirely before he bites, hard, on his inner thigh. 

He wants to squeeze his thighs around Dream’s head, but the hold of the ropes around his ankles, combined with the other’s hands spreading him open, are too strong for him to overcome. So, Dream keeps going. It’s torturous, everywhere his mouth touches not being quite where George needs it. He feels, in real time, his pale skin being littered with little mouth-shaped bruises until they coat him. Marks: just what he wants. 

“Georgie,” Dream speaks up, looking at him from in between his thighs and, dear god, isn’t that a lovely sight. “I’m going to give you some instructions, and I need you to follow them for me, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” He answers so immediately that he almost cuts Dream off. 

“What I want you to do,” he says, caressing his inner thighs with the gentleness of someone more than just a fuck, “Is tell me whenever you’re close. I need you to do that every single time, without fail.”

George nods, teasing strands of Dream’s hair between his fingers. “I will, I promise I’ll be good. Please, just touch me. I’m begging you.”

Dream laughs softly, and he feels the breath on his cock. “So easy for me, baby.” He dips further down, and utters something else that’s soft enough, reverent enough, that he knows he wasn’t supposed to hear it. “God… did this all for me. So fucking perfect, so beautiful. Jesus Christ, what did I do to deserve this?”

He knows it wasn’t for him, so he fights the heat rising on his cheeks and pretends that he didn’t hear it at all. 

After taking his time to mutter praise to himself, Dream goes to grasp for the base of the toy and gently pull in back-and-forth motions until it slips from him. George moans out at the feeling as he clenches around emptiness. “You even prepped yourself… good boy.”

Once he sets it aside, his head suddenly dips low and George cries out as Dream’s tongue slides in to replace the small toy: it’s a stunning sensation, completely new on this new bed, and he’s left reeling at the novelty of it all. It’s obviously not as long as his fingers, but it’s slick and hot in a way that makes his nerves sing. “Oh, fuck— Dream!” He pulls instinctively on his hair, a bit harder than he likely should have, but the other groans in contentment. 

Dream’s fingers are burning into his thighs where they spread him open, and every little touch is like fire. The marks he’s left all over George’s skin throb and only make his cock twitch more. The longer Dream continues absolutely fucking him with his tongue, the more beads of precum bleed through his underwear until he feels the telltale coil tightening low in his stomach. 

“D-Dream, I’m close.” It hurts him to say it, because the other immediately withdraws, making his cock flex with want. He tries to push his mouth back to where he wants it, where he needs it, but he stays unmoving. 

“So good for me,” Dream responds, looking back up at him from between his thighs with his mouth slick with spit. Jesus fucking Christ. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

George groans with frustration. “No, it- it was hard. Please, let me—”

The other tsks , resignation filling his eyes. “Oh come on now, baby. Don’t tell me you’re giving up so early because, if you do, you’ll have wasted all this effort for nothing.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Georgie, if you can’t follow my instructions,” He answers, eyes dark and sadistic. “I’ll just leave you tied here until your hard-on goes down, and then I’ll drive you home.”

“No, please, anything but that.” He’s squirming with want. 

Dream raises his eyebrows. “Then you should already know my answer. I’m not going to let you come yet because I don’t want you to come yet. You’re going to hold out for me, however long that is, and you’re going to be good. This time, you won’t get punished if you can’t: I’ll just leave you high and dry.”

He nods in understanding. “O-okay. I get it.”

The other regards him carefully for a moment, studying the flush on his face and the marks littering his chest, before he dips back down and resumes his former activities. While not able to go as deep as his fingers, and certainly not as deep as his cock, Dream’s tongue, when he points it, is just long enough to press against his prostate, making his back arch and music come from his mouth. 

It’s only a few more minutes before it’s too much again, and he’s left a gasping mess. “ Fuck , close!” Dream withdraws. 

“Good boy,” He coos again, and a part of George lights on fire at the praise. “Is it frustrating? Having to stop yourself from feeling good?”

“Yes,” He whines out, hips writhing in Dream’s grasp. “You’re- you know how to make me feel good.”

Dream’s tongue licks a stripe at the juncture where his thigh and his hips meet. “Oh, I know I do, baby. That’s why it’s so fun to play with you,” Another stripe even closer to his cock. “Because I know just-” There’s wet heat dragging right at his base. “How-” He sucks a mark into some of the most delicate flesh on George’s body, and he wants to scream. “To make you squirm.”

With his back deeply arched and his hands tugging desperately at Dream’s hair, he feels the bruise blooming on his skin on the edge of his underwear, right next to the base of his cock, with a violent intensity. He doesn’t have to look down to know that more teeth marks— less savage than usual—litter his skin like wayward galaxies, speckled with the stars of burst capillaries that swarm their way across ivory expanses, erasing all traces of clouded alabaster skies in their wake.

Dream’s own confident assertions linger heavy in his mind, unbearably true, and he almost can’t stand it. This is, what, only the sixth time they’ve done this? And yet, he somehow knows every single button held within George’s own internal panelling, and he’s able to press all of them at once. It’s absolutely infuriating, knowing that Dream is able to read him so unbearably easily. George likes to think of himself as a relatively guarded person but, somehow, every single stone wall he put up was dismantled, brick by precious brick, with only a single gaze from Dream. He’s never painted his emotions or even physical sensations across his face, but he might as well have handed Dream a book with every single tic and tell he had, if the way he’s being treated is an indicator of anything. Is he like this with everyone he fucks, or does he have some sort of special access to George that not even he understands? 

It was only sort of a reciprocal feeling. Outside of bed, Dream is as open as the clear sky, easy smiles and warm laughter pinching his face with a brutal honesty that George finds endearing. When he looms over him, though, Dream becomes as unreadable as can be. The façade he crafts is impeccable: smooth-stoned and almost always free of cracks. Tonight is the first time he’s been able to see it properly falter, but the man behind it is still maddeningly just out of reach at all times. 

But, Dream’s mouth is back to its awful teasing, and he’s physically incapable of dwelling on it. His toes curl as a swarm of insects in the form of bitter arousal flutters in his hips. He feels Dream’s burning fucking tongue slide beneath the scant bit of clothing that he wears, just tracing along the edge and making him ache. He’s still livid at being brutally yanked back from the edge, cock twitching in protest as his body cries from the lack of release. 

“Please,” George breathes, struggling against the ropes in vain as he tries to push at Dream with his trembling thighs. “At- at least touch me like you mean it.”

The man responsible for his torture looks up from between his legs, pyrite eyes half-hooded with lust and a smirk a mile high splayed across his lips. “Oh, you think I don’t mean this, Georgie?” He dips down briefly, trailing the pointed tip of his tongue along the still-clothed cock in front of him, making George fucking keen . “Because I can assure you that I’m being very intentional with everything I’m doing to you. I swear.”

“Don’t believe you.” He whines out, trying to buck up for friction, for heat, for anything at all. 

Dream laughs, low and simmering; dangerous. “Well, it doesn’t really matter if you believe me. You do realize,” He drawls, thumbs digging harshly into the delicate skin on the inside of his thighs. “That the more of a fight you put up on that front, the longer I’m gonna make you wait, right?” 

“N-no,” George does his best to assert, although there isn’t an ounce of confidence rattling around his voice as he does so. “You won’t be that mean. You said you wouldn’t make me hurt.”

He feels the breath of Dream’s scoff on his throbbing cock, and lets out some desperate, strangled noise. “I meant that I wasn’t going to hit you, baby. I never said I wouldn’t make you scream some other way.”

He sobs out a “ Fuck” that’s so pent up it even startles George. 

“Let’s see, just how should I do that, anyway?” Dream ponders, continuing to nip at the overly-attuned flesh on his hips and thighs between his words. He’s clearly taking his time, not an ounce of urgency in his movements as he clearly just enjoys himself. “You seemed to like it when I took you down my throat. Then again, I could always open you up with my fingers; you do love that, don’t you, doll?”

Muscle twitches at the mention, and a new streak of need positively tears through him, scrambling his insides and sending flickering flares surging through his neurons in torrents. George knows that this is a razored double-edged sword: if he’s honest, he knows that asking for it will be nothing but torturous. Just like Dream has already said, he knows how to make him squirm, knows exactly where to press inside of him until he’s not only seeing stars, but all of their planets too. He knows relief will come at the end of it all, but the torment must come first. 

So, he gives in. “Yes, I do; I do love it.”

With the assent, Dream pulls back and out of his grasp, withdrawing to start shedding the layers that he wears and to grab for an ebony bottle of lube resting atop his nightstand. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows catch on the hollows of his body and lights stumbles across the ridges, speckling him in glorious stripes of gold and umber that make him look like he’s been rendered in oils. He’s hard, the outline of his cock prominent in his jeans and making George salivate, and his eyes are dark with lust. They draw him in and he feels flush bloom across his chest in response to being looked at with that much possession. 

Dream climbs between his legs again, gaze so intense that it burns him. “Don’t worry, baby,” He hums, but his tone is acerbic and biting. It’s honeycomb laced with vinegar. “You trust me to make you feel good, don’t you? Come on, now: tell me when I’ve failed to make you happy, because you’ve never lodged a single complaint.”

“You’ve made me cry a hell of a lot,” He mumbles, heaving in his corset as he waits. “Fucking dacryphiliac.”

He just laughs, tossing back his head and exposing the grizzled expanse of his throat. “Well, that’s just not an answer. Keep up that kind of attitude and I’ll keep you tied right—” Dream shifts to pin his hands down. “Here, all laid out and pretty and so fucking frustrated.”

God, he just wants to be an absolute brat and snap back at him, tell him just how irked he is right now and how much he needs to come. But, the harsh and new press of Dream’s weight on his slim wrists makes his breath hitch and the words die before they can even clank against his teeth. “Please, don’t. I’m sorry, sir.”

“There’s my sweet boy, so good for me,” He pops open the bottle cap and starts to warm the slick he spills onto his long, just slightly crooked fingers. George tries to mask just how much his words make him burn . “Now, I’m going to make you cry, baby.” The devious glint in his irises is enough to freeze him in place. His seizure isn’t helped by the feeling of heat pressing against him, swirling around sensitive nerve endings but not giving him what he needs. 

He refuses to press forward, and George can’t help but buck against him. In a moment of daring, he meets Dream’s eyes. “If you really want to make me cry,” There’s a challenge in his voice that he knows won’t go unaddressed. “Then you have to actually do something more than tease me.”

Dream’s handsome face showcases a flickering slideshow of emotions— surprise, humor, arousal— before settling into something darker. “Georgie, Georgie, you little fucking slut” He tuts, flashing pearled teeth that somehow seems to all turn to canines in the light. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”

He thrusts two of his fingers into him, and he sighs out relief at finally having something to clench around since he’d been left empty earlier. His relief, however, is short lived, as Dream immediately curls them up, at least two knuckles deep, and he finds George’s prostate without even a breath of effort. He can’t help it as his eyes roll back into his head, throat falling open and vulnerable while Dream tears a moan from it. He’s just pinning one of his wrists now, so he can only carve scarlet trails into Dream’s shoulders with one hand, but he’ll take what he can get. So, he does, the fingers still trapped against the mattress grasping feverishly for the blankets below him.

“Remember your rule?” Dream leans down, hot breath licking against his ear. He continues to lazily draw tight circles inside of him, making the man below him tremble, unabated. 

“Yes, sir.” George chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut as the blond begins to stoke fire in his hips. 

It’s good; of course it’s good. Dream had never even once done something that didn’t make his back arch. Even the harshest lashes of a riding crop or the strong yanks on his hair were almost perfectly attuned to what he could withstand, and what was just enough to get confused with pleasure; nothing more, and nothing less. His fingernails catch on one of Dream’s shoulder blades, and he hardly reacts, only a softly pleased groan slipping from his mouth. “Oh? You wanna mark me up too, baby?” He accompanies his jab with a sharp twist of his fingers as he slips a third inside of George. 

The new sensation makes his eyelids snap open, and he’s treated to a flicker of gentle warmth in Dream’s irises. Before he can dwell on it, though, it’s quickly covered up by smirking confidence the moment he notices George’s eyes on him. 

“Oh, god— fuck, Dream!” It leaves his mouth before George can even process the thoughts entering his brain. The other’s name runs into a throaty mewl as he tries to wiggle his hips downward, seeking whatever he can get.

“So fucking needy.” Why do all of his actions have to be so goddamn pointed? “I bet you’re already close again.”

George chokes. “I- yes, I- I am.”

“Just how close? I need you to tell me, George. You look so pretty tonight, but I need you to use your words, too.” He sounds bored, or perhaps disappointed. 

George wants to be good, he wants to be good for him. He wants to hear his voice drip with gold. “You don’t need to stop yet- ah! Soon, but not yet.”

He hums out his approval, and George’s eyes slide shut at the sweet note, relishing the euphoria lapping at him in cacophonous waves while Dream works on taking him apart expertly. He’s little more than a piece of mechanical clockwork under him; a study in carnality. 

Dream finally releases his other wrist, and his own response is immediate, slipping between his legs to grab for Dream and try to urge him deeper inside. “Please, oh, please; more.”

His hand is swatted away. “Don’t make me regret leaving you untied,” He threatens, eyes piercing straight through his skull and pinning him with just a gaze. “I don’t want to have to be rough with you tonight and risk ruining these pretty little underthings you bought for me.” Dream’s tone is serious enough that he can almost feel bruises forming on his ass from repeated impact. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” He whispers, screwing his eyes shut out of embarrassment. “It won’t happen again. Can I- can I still touch you?”

He considers for a moment. “You can, but the second you interfere again with anything I’m doing, I’ll tie you to the headboard, that clear?”

George nods, response muffled by the moan Dream pries from his throat as he picks up the speed of his fingers. He’s remarkably nonchalant about it all and remains somehow aloof despite the fact that he can see him straining painfully against his clothes. How he remains so collected is still something that’s absolutely beyond him. George is already starting to fray; hard. He’s been seized roughly and dangled over the edge of a cliff twice now, and he can tell that number three is just over the horizon. He knows how this is supposed to go: Dream will draw this out for god knows how long, finding his own pleasure first, and the sheer amount of edging will make the final event intense enough to blind. But, just because he knows how this will go, doesn’t mean that he’s prepared for it. 

“Can’t,” He gasps out, putting in a monumental amount of effort into steadying his breath and stopping himself from coming without permission. “Stop, please , sir.”

Dream obeys, although he knows that he’s still the one giving orders, not George. His cock pulses angrily as the stimulation is removed and he clenches around nothing as talented fingers withdraw. It does legitimately hurt now, his nerves growing frazzled and his muscle impatient as he’s denied yet again. George has no idea just how many times this is going to be done to him, and a spike of exquisite dread lances straight through his stomach at the thought. 

“Look at you,” Dream brings a hand up to cup his left cheek, stroking softly through trails of tears that George hadn’t even been aware were there. “Between this and you getting all dressed up, I’m going to just have so much fun tonight. So long as you behave, of course. Now, it’s just a matter of when I should actually fuck you.”

George moans out something pathetic; a pitiful plea that reads somewhere between I don’t care, I just need something inside me and fuck me into the mattress until I forget how to breathe. He knows that words would be fruitless, so he doesn’t bother to use them. 

Eventually, three fingers slide back into him, and he arches his spine off the bed like a bitch in heat. He can feel pearls of precum collecting where his cock is trapped by his lingerie and pressed to his hip, already forced so close three times now. He can only hope he saved the washing instructions for these things, because he’s going to need them.

“What do I need to do?” George enjoins, tone edging into more frantic territory. “Please, tell me what I have to do for you to fuck me. I need you inside of me so badly, please—”

He’s interrupted by a full-throated laugh accompanied by a barbaric curl of Dream’s fingers that have him floating. “There’s nothing you can do , baby,” He hums, incredibly self-satisfied. “I’ll do it when I’m in the mood to, and I’ll tell you what: I’m not done seeing you fuck yourself onto my fingers, so you just be patient for me. You want to be good, don’t you?”

George nods quickly, doing exactly what the other had asked to see. He’s not used to having this much physical agency in bed with him, usually beautifully bound— which he enjoyed, of course he did— but he hungers for this. He lets his hips move, sliding easily against blankets, which are just starting to grow overly warm against his skin from friction, and tries to force Dream’s finger further into him. He’s desperate to feel full, and this is only just a half measure in the grand scheme of things, but he’ll take what he can get for now. 

“There we go. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Dream is still leaning mostly away from him while he works, but he grabs for him nonetheless. He thankfully realizes what George wants and shifts his unoccupied arm so that he can lean over the smaller man beneath him, putting him within range of his touch. George scrabbles for his hand, which meets his with an upturned palm, letting him slide his fingers in between the crooks of their mirrors and squeeze hard. Growing more and more eager to come, he doesn’t even notice the unseemly vulnerability in doing it, only trying to hold on to something to keep him grounded to this room so that he doesn’t slip out of his own mind. 

He whimpers out pleas and demands— only half-hearted since he knows that, while he might have more physical freedom, any illusion of control is just that: an illusion. George can cry and beg and scream all he wants, but nothing is going to happen without Dream’s agreement. He feels a pang of guilt as he digs his short fingernails into the back of the hand joined with his, knowing that it likely hurts quite a bit, but it’s quickly overtaken by cloying need. 

The steel boning of the corset only yields a fraction when he arches his back off of the mattress, digging sharply into his hips as he contorts. “Sir, please.”

Dream halts his movements, which George chases, but he removes himself completely when he realizes what the brunet is trying to do. “Keep asking, and maybe I’ll grant it to you one of these times.”

He wants to cry, hips frantic for stimulation in empty air, and he doesn’t have to look down to know that his cock is twitching with desperate need. “Please; please at least let me feel you inside me. Please. That’s all I want, sir. I’ll hold back and be good, just like I promised, but I can’t wait anymore.”

Dream palms himself through his jeans, moaning softly as he takes in George’s pitiful state: he’s spread wide on his mattress, one hand gripping Dream’s with an iron strength he wasn’t even aware he had, and the other quaking in its hold on the sheets as he resists wrapping his fingers around his cock to get satisfaction. George can’t see himself, but he can tell that his body is covered in flush, and light trails of salt streak down his temples. He doesn’t even want to think particularly hard about the obscene ensemble he’s wearing.

“Well, you have been begging like a good boy,” Dream comments, eyebrows quirked as he evaluates his pleas. His face betrays absolutely nothing and leaves George in bitter suspension while he waits. “And I’d be lying if I said I don’t want to ruin you in these pretty little clothes of yours. You look so gorgeous like this.” Dream’s voice lowers for the second sentence, eyes tracing over the slight curves of George’s body as he lays, exposed and painfully aroused, beneath him.

He meets the blond’s eyes with shattering intensity and an honesty that curls around his windpipe until it nearly strangles him. “ Please .”

That seems to do it at long last, and Dream tugs his hand free so that he can leave the bed and quickly pull the clothes from his legs before returning. He grips George’s hips with his non-dominant hand and slicks himself up with the other, looking down at him with hunger while he sighs out sensation. “Baby, if you thought my fingers were bad, I don’t know what to tell you now.” He admits as he wipes off his hand so he can finally wrap a bruising hold around the narrow hips beneath him. 

It makes George groan sweetly, wishing for grotesques of burgundied snapdragons to climb his pelvis until they could nestle between his ribs and make him ill. “I can handle it, I swear.”

“Ha, sure, baby,” Dream lines himself up and presses against him, not pushing forward just yet: just a tease. “Keep telling yourself that.”

With that, George’s skull cracks open with a broken moan as he feels the other finally thrust into him. Between what he’d done himself before arriving, and the fact Dream had very cruelly prepped him for god only knows how long now, he’s about ready for it physically, but he still feels split open. “Fuck, so full—”

Dream just laughs under his breath at that, bottoming out and pressing his hips to the back of George’s stocking-clad thighs with ease. He grinds softly against him, giving him a moment to adjust. “Like you’re made for me, Georgie. You take me so well.”

His breathing is just starting to heave, and he splits open the seams of his eyes to look at a remarkably unruffled Dream. “I feel like you’re in my fucking stomach.” George mutters, the muscles in his thighs just slightly quivering. 

“Good.” Is the only hint of a response that he gets before Dream snaps his hips back, setting a pace that’s just a bit less brutal than usual, but he’s going deep and making his toes curl. 

George is already sensitive enough as-is, what with his nerves glowing from sweet sparks of sensation and pleasure and bitter denial, and as Dream’s cock starts to scrape inside of him, his body sings. His fingers grow hungry again, reaching for the blond and leaking out a moan when he leans down to bite at his neck, allowing George to wrap his arms over his shoulders.

He’s dangerously close like this, carving possession into his skin, and he tilts his face away from the side of his throat Dream busies himself painting so that he doesn’t have to think about the proximity. George feels like a teenager again, already so close to coming despite the fact his partner has been inside of him for probably no more than a handful of minutes, and he knows that Dream can tell. 

He sinks his teeth into his shoulder, laving over his collarbone before pulling back, easy strength defeating the grip George has on him. “You’re getting so tight around me, baby. Gonna come soon, aren’t you?”

He’s close enough, yet again, that he can feel muscle deep in his hips start to flutter, rising tide of chemicals joining them until he feels his thoughts start to fuzz. The only thing he can bring himself to do is nod, so he does, and he’s expecting Dream to lash at him and demand words, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out completely and totally, and leaves George shocked enough that tears bead in the corners of his eyes. “N-no! Please, sir, please, I was so close, I—”

“It’s not my fault you just don’t have any stamina,” Dream tuts. “And, since you don’t, this is how it has to be. You’re so needy that I think just me stopping still wouldn’t be enough to keep you from making a pathetic mess of yourself. Let’s get you to calm down a bit, hmm? Then I’ll keep fucking you.”

George curls his fingers, digging his nails more sharply into Dream’s shoulders in retaliation, but he only makes a pleased little noise at it: like he’s taking the first sip of hot tea on a frigid day. “Fuck.” George hisses, frustrated and painfully empty as Dream’s cock stays pressed right against him. It’s a vicious tease, and he knows the other is doing it intentionally, just to be cruel. 

A broad hand strokes over the bite marks that its owner had left on the ivory column of George’s throat, soothing and callous all at once. “God, you look so pretty in all of this stuff you wore for me, but I think you look even better with my bruises all over you. Don’t you agree?”

The salt water finally drips down his temples as the ache in his cock returns to a blunt simmer instead of a screaming boil. “Yeah, I do.”

“Not to mention these pretty tears of yours.”

“Like I said earlier,” He bites, resisting the instinct to wipe them from his face. Dream had said he liked his face like this, before, and he knows depriving him of something he wants right now would be a bad idea. George isn’t sure how much more edging he can take. “You’re a fucking dacryphiliac.”

There’s another wheezed out laugh as long fingers come to trace the outline of the tear tracks on his face. “Maybe so, maybe so. Are you ready for my cock again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not lying to me?”

“No, sir.”

“Good boy.” Dream smoothly pushes back into George and a quiet groan leaves his mouth as he feels velvety heat wrap around him again. 

He does his best to steady his breathing, an effort that ultimately proves fruitless when the head of Dream’s cock immediately drags against his prostate and makes him feel like he’s touched a live wire. George knows that he immediately clenches around him and it’s only proven when Dream finally lets a proper moan leak from his throat: gorgeous sound and curling desire. 

“Not so- not there, please!” George cries and he’s fraying already like the edges of threadbare seams. 

Dream only smiles wickedly down at him, bending to take one of his earlobes between his gleaming teeth and pulling sharply. “I told you I was gonna make you lose your fucking mind, and I meant it. There is right where I want to be.” He punctuates it with another targeted thrust, punching just where it fucking burns. 

He can feel the color splattered all over his chest, delicacy and obedience staining his skin in the places the corset doesn’t touch. Some of it is from Dream’s savage mouth, biting and sucking as though he were nothing but something to be consumed beneath him; most of it is from the sickening flush that coats him as just another sign of his possession. The longer this goes on, the more he feels like the embodiment of submission, despite his theoretical freedom tonight. No matter how much he claws at Dream’s back, no matter how much he pulls the hair at the nape of his neck, it only takes large hands wrapping around his narrowed waist or a vindictive grind to remind him that he belongs to someone else right now. He might be slim, but he’s not a particularly tiny man, and the effortlessness it takes Dream to hold him like that makes his own arousal seethe. 

The frame of mind he needs to keep in order to warn Dream that he’s close is starting to slip. He can only babble out nonsense this time, all stimulation immediately stopped and making him sob out disappointment. His hands slip from their perch on his partner to pound once into the mattress, beginning to grow beyond frustrated. There’s a pool of precum that’s leaked out onto his hip, and those odd muscles deep inside of him are beginning to cramp up and protest from being repeatedly strung along like this and dropped. If he weren’t tied up, he’d have kicked his legs like a petulant child; he’s trembling too much.

Dream takes his displeasure in stride, whistling low. “God, baby, just look at you. Tears on your face, and you’re just so fucking hard in those pretty little underwear of yours. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this pent up, actually,” To emphasize his point and make him wail, he traces the outline of his throbbing cock, dragging delicate tulle over screaming flesh. “You’re just such a lovely shade of dark red, and you can’t even see it, right?”

Filthy keens escape him, far beyond his control now. He manages a string of disordered pleas, blinking dark, salt-damp eyelashes at Dream in a last-ditch hope that it will make him relent. If he thinks that George is so pretty, it should at least shoot a crack in his defenses. 

To his disappointment, he’s hardly phased by it. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you permission to come at some point,” As if that’s reassuring in any way. “But I know you can get a little more desperate, don’t you think?”

George plasters his head to the pillows, dark hair splaying against them until he has a small halo ringing his tear-stricken face. “Please, I- I’m already so desperate. You’ve done this so many times already, I—”

“I have,” Dream interrupts, confident smirk sidling across his lips. “And I can still do it a few more.”

“Hurry up, then.” He snaps, not even thinking about something as distant as consequences. 

It’s a fatal error. 

A hand loosely wraps around his throat— not squeezing, just threatening— and his eyelids flutter shut. “Hurry up, then?” Dream questions, tone turning dark and acidic; he feels like he’s wilting under a blazing sun when he looks down at him. “ Hurry up, then? You’re turning into a real brat and, just for that, I’ll make sure to draw this out even longer. You know how punishment works, Georgie. You were stupid to say that.”

He writhes on the mattress, knowing that no amount of apologies or pitiful begging could incite Dream away from this once his mind was set; he could see the glint in his eyes that told George he was in for a more sour turn of events. He’d love to take the hits, and hits would mean his punishment is temporary, but Dream had already pledged not to do that. 

He’s split open again, taking the other’s cock like he’s meant to, and the worst of it begins. 

Even if a clock had been hanging centimeters away from his face, George wouldn’t have been able to tell you how long it lasts. Dream reads him like the oscillating graph of a heart beat, monitoring as he pitches and sinks again and again and again at his hand. Sound fades, and all that he can focus on is the seering need in his hips; the one that crawls up the length of his cock, the one that wraps around his esophagus and squeezes with an invisible hand until he can hardly breath. He’s had this done to him before, of course, by Dream and by others, but he’s never been denied for so fucking long, and he’s about to properly lose his mind. 

Tears stream steadily from his eyes, so physically frustrated that he’s finally spilling over into serious cries when Dream pulls out yet again, yanking him back from the edge with nothing more than a paper clip hooked into his back to keep him upright. He thrashes against the sheets, everything from his hips to his crown, as his aching cock finally slips to agony. He can’t do it; he can’t hold on anymore. He’s been denied too many times, and there is only so much he can withstand. True sobs well up from his chest, and they’re not the ones he’s usually guilty of when Dream overwhelms him. They’re real, hideous sobs that make his lungs heave and lead to hiccups interrupting the wet noises that spill from him as his mouth contorts into something unseemly. It only takes two gasps before Dream realizes something is wrong and comes to soothe him by wrapping arms around his back and lifting him up into sitting so that he can see him better. 

“George, baby, I need you to talk to me— what’s wrong?” George’s eyes are screwed shut as he cries, so he can’t see the concern decorating his handsome features, but he can hear it in his voice. 

It takes him a few wrenching breaths before he can respond properly. “R-red,” He gasps out, immediately morphing into sobs yet again. “Please, I can’t, I- it’s too much. I can’t do it. Please, I need to come, I have to, it- it hurts, and I—” George is hardly coherent, stuttering and stammering his way through his own tears, and another well of emotion cuts him off before he can even finish his rambling mess. 

Dream shushes him, pulling him flush to his chest and rubbing gentle circles on his back. “It’s alright, I promise. I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize you were that overwhelmed. Do you want to stop?”

“N-no, I— Please, I need to come, I have to come. Please, please, sir. It hurts, please.” He knows his emotion is dampening Dream’s golden skin, but his body, so drawn up and exhausted from constant convulsions and trembling, demands to find expression. 

Kind lips are pressed to his left cheek, Dream’s dominant facade completely gone as he holds him close. “Alright, honey. How d’you want to finish?”

“Want you inside.” He chokes out, sacred tears dripping from his cheeks like an icon’s.

Hands creep low. “Alright. Let me help you, then we can get you sorted out, okay?”

George nods against his skin, only scrambling for purchase over Dream’s shoulders as he’s lifted carefully by strong arms into his lap and eased back onto the other’s cock. His whimpers turn into a long moan that he’s sure is unbelievably loud right against Dream’s ear, and he lets his movements be completely carried out by someone else, only providing downward momentum as he works with Dream to find his prostate again so that he can finally, finally come undone. 

“There we go,” His sweet words are accompanied by tender kisses beneath his ear and hands spreading to grip his ass more firmly. “You’re so fucking good for me. You’ve done so well tonight, holding out for so long and denying yourself, and I’m so proud of you. You always do so well, baby. I want you to come so hard, alright? Can you do that for me?”

Crying still overtakes him, but he’s able to whine out a yes as he feels his exhausted body dragged toward the cliff’s edge yet again. How he’ll even still have the energy left in the coils of his muscle to climax isn’t something that George understands, but he’s drowning in docility and a haze of endorphins too thick for him to even start to comprehend. The whirlpool he’s hardly treading water in finally drags him under when one of Dream’s hand slips from his ass and instead goes to carefully tug down the underwear he’s wearing and free his flushed cock. Fingers wrap around him and stroke only a handful of times, and that’s it. 

George isn’t entirely sure what happens for the next sixty seconds. Himeros takes him in his hold, and he loses every single piece of sense that he has left as his body tenses and is finally, finally allowed to come. 

The world fades to violent white, and he’s hardly conscious that Dream is even there with him, moaning out his own end and grimacing as George claws at his skin. It doesn’t take long for his hearing to fail him too, submerging him in an indigo fog of confusion and lust that consumes him completely and totally. He feels like he’s dying; he feels like he’s touching life.

Eventually, the world starts to return to blurry focus, and he’s aware that he’s collapsed against the man who holds him, not an ounce of strength left anywhere in his body. There’s filthy heat inside of him where he can feel Dream had painted his walls, and he’s aware that his own release coats his chest, cooling against the dry air of his flat. 

It takes him a few moments longer to realize that Dream is calling his name. “George? George, are you alright? Say something, anything.” There’s legitimate concern in his voice. 

His breath is still heaving, but his tears at least seem to have dried. “I- I’m here.”

“Are you- are you okay ?” He asks, hands sliding so that he can push George away just enough so that they’re forced to make eye contact. 

George is still hazed, bathing in laudanum and violets, but he can at least look in the general direction of the beautiful golden eyes searching for his. “I just- please tell me I came.”

He surprises Dream with that, who blinks a few times before the laughs he’s smothering burst through his weak defences. “Oh my god, that’s what you’re asking me? Seriously? You just pulled a red card, and now you’re just checking to make sure you came?” 

That makes George giggle, too, weak and giddy as he swims in a soup of oxytocin and adrenaline. “Felt like I might’ve left my body for a bit. Never hurts to make sure.”

“Well,” Dream finally answers, going to wipe tears from his cheek as he cups his face with gentility. “You managed to get cum on my chin and screamed so loud that I’m actually kind of scared my neighbors heard, so I’m going to go with yes.”

He should be blushing furiously at that; should be a sputtering, embarrassed mess, but he literally couldn’t care less right now. Exhaustion and the afterglow of orgasm hang in a heavy mantle on his shoulders, and it consumes him. 

“Really, though,” There’s a serious gravity to his voice that immediately forces some of the fog from his mind, demanding his attention. “Are you alright? You’ve never gone to red before. I’m really sorry.”

“‘S not your fault,” George mumbles, meeting his gaze with a quiet, reassuring smile that seems to immediately send a pulse of relief through Dream. “I just couldn’t take any more. It’s not like you get a guide ahead of time on what my tolerance is.”

“I know,” He acknowledges, but he’s still carefully holding George’s face in his hands, soothing and kind. “But I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. You just looked so...” He doesn’t finish, trailing one set of fingers down to light over the back of his corset. 

Dream is still inside of him as he sits with legs spread in his lap. He feels full; content, like this. “Your apology isn’t needed, but I’ll accept it if it makes you feel better,” George cards his fingers through Dream’s now-messy hair. “Now, please, dear god, help me get this thing off. I’m so fucking hot.”

The mood is light again, and Dream laughs as he pulls out, making George whimper from an overstimulation that he soothes with releasing his legs at last. No matter how many times he goes through the reverent process of untying, Dream’s affection never ceases to make his breath hitch as he rubs away the rope burn and worships his skin. He wobbles in place, hardly able to keep himself from falling back and collapsing. 

Finally, he feels fingers settle on the lacing of his corset. “How do I, um, get this off?”

“Undo the bow in the center,” He instructs. “And then just slowly loosen the rest like you’re relacing shoes. It looks more complicated than it is, I promise.”

The pressure eases slightly when just the tails come undone, and he lets his back slump as he completely abandons his posture. It takes everything in his power to not think about how, in olden days, husbands were able to tell if their wives had been unfaithful because their lover would always lace them back up in just a slightly different manner than he had done for her in the morning. He doesn’t think about the intimacy of this: of Dream slowly unwrapping the single most complicated thing he could’ve chosen to wear, of him doing it with such care and attention that he can feel it leak into the air around them. In such close proximity, he has to try very hard to keep his breathing under control.

Eventually, though, he feels it loosen enough that Dream is confident to try and slide it back over his head, so he lifts his arms to make the whole process easier. George moans out shamelessly once the thing is off his body, and can’t help it when he falls back against Dream’s broad chest.

“God, this left a lot of marks on you,” Dream comments, tracing fingers down the phantom boning that the corset had left behind. “Almost looks like it’s trying to challenge me.”

“Oh my god, you’re so stupid.” George chortles, letting hands roam over his body for a while until they slip under the waistband of his underwear. 

Dream’s thumbs rub there, patient and forgiving. “You look so pretty in these, but you should probably take them off for now.”

It only takes a look down at himself, covered in long streaks of his own release, for him to realize the truth of his statement. Rather than respond with words, he lifts his hips and lets Dream slide them from his body. “Want me to at least leave the stockings on?” He teases, knowing that the other clearly enjoyed the sight of him in them.

He can feel Dream’s blush behind him as it heats his face and creeps down his neck. “Well, I mean I- I definitely wouldn’t mind.”

George snorts. “Alright then, clean us up and get under the covers. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“As you wish.” Dream taunts, withdrawing to get what he needs.

The process takes about as long as it usually does, wiping sweat and tears and lube from his drying skin with a simmering tenderness that still gets to him, somehow, every single time. Once it’s over, Dream, not even bothering with clothes tonight, settles back on the bed and finally brings him real hope of sleep.

“Well, that was just a bit different from last time around.” George prods, jovial and light. The sheets are soft beneath him, newly exposed as Dream pulls back the comforter and guides his tired body beneath it. 

His partner laughs softly, clear bells in valley air. “Come on, I couldn’t help myself,” Dream confesses and joins him under the blankets, immediately opening his arms for George to melt into. “You can’t come to my apartment the way you did and expect me to not react like that. I mean, come on now.”

The curve of Dream’s ribs is familiar to him now, fingers comfortable and well-acquainted with him in these lilting, saccharine moments after he’d been littered with marks and possessed. His skin glows with ember heat beneath his palm and, despite the fact that exertion still clings to his own body, George can’t help but press himself close as legs tangle properly with his at long last. He felt so cared for and so fucking safe like this that it made him want to cry; he would sooner die than admit that, of course. 

“That might’ve been my intention.”

“God, you’re such a brat,” The blond chastises, voice rumbling deep in his chest where George’s forehead is pressed against it. But, it’s all laced through with playfulness, belying the affection there with hardly any effort. “I should’ve punished you more.”

“As if me openly sobbing in your bed wasn’t punishment enough?”

“Okay, fine. Fair point.”

They fall to quiet after that, Dream’s heartbeat a steady metronome beneath him, where his ear presses against his chest. Fingers card through his hair, twisting strands between them and making him melt as gooseflesh spreads down his neck at the pleasant feeling. Lulling him to sleep like this is easy and time-worn, and Dream knows it.

“Did you wanna talk at all, or watch something? Or do you just want to sleep?” He finally murmurs, voice hardly above a whisper as he senses George’s fading consciousness. 

He nuzzles into the crook of Dream’s neck, pressing himself impossibly closer. “Just let me sleep, I think.”

The blond nods against his own head, finally tipping his cheek down to rest atop his very tangled hair. “Still can’t believe you wore my cologne, you seductive little bastard.”

George snorts, waking self slipping fast. At least he wasn’t questioning why George had gone to such lengths to dress up in the first place; that wasn’t a question he was prepared to answer. “Oh, fuck off.”

---

Sunlight flows like dulcet amber, hanging him in glorious suspension as its warmth slashes him in incandescent waves. There is heat elsewhere, too: trapped beneath silken sheets and the arms of a man he’s a little overly fond of, and he could happily drown in it. 

He’s only just awoken, and it’s hardly a moment later that he feels lips pressed to his throat, not ravenous but not even-tempered, either. Dream pulls him somehow closer as he cranes his neck to give the blond more access, letting his fingernails wander over the smoothly freckled skin of Dream’s broad back. George can feel the tracks he’d carved there last night, and a part of him glows at it. The eigengrau paintings of shut eyelids envelop him once more, but he does not return to sleep. 

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are, love?” Dream murmurs, voice like honey; voice like prayer. His hands encircle George’s waist and he presses them flush from chest to thigh, his own skin thrumming with life where it meets his. “You look like you walked straight off of a museum wall, and I get to have you all to myself. God, I’m so fucking lucky. ”

George can’t even properly respond, so awestruck at the raw honesty dripping from his tongue as he continues his trail upward, gentle pressure lighting along his jaw as it’s cupped and worshipped. “Dream, what’re you—”

“I mean it,” He reaffirms, speckling pecks along his cheek now. “You’re so perfect.” 

It’s hardly a moment later that his face is being gently tilted and chapped lips slot into his. 

There’s a tide of vicious emotion that still somehow glows gentle in his ribcage: all-consuming and pervasive. He feels like he’s floating, he feels like Icarus plummeting to earth, but he knows that there’s no use in him wasting time. George is wrapping himself around the other’s stretched figure, not yet letting his mouth part beneath the one meeting his, and finds his own hands turning greedy. Dream’s shoulder blade is sharp beneath his palm, his spine pointedly ridged, his hair silken and mussed from sex and sleep. He wanders and he devours, mind fogged from the affectionate turn of events. How long has George been hungering for this? How long had he desperately wanted to have even a hint of the taste of Dream’s mouth? Since that very first night, this had been missing for him.

Soft sighs escape the spaces that open up between them for only fractions of a second as they adjust the tilt of their heads, hands grappling and legs shifting until he can hardly tell where he ends and Dream begins. Finally, a tongue laps against his bottom lip, and he lets his mouth fall open with hardly a thought, wet heat consuming him as they start a dance different from any they’ve attempted before. Broad fingers splay neatly against the dip of his spine, and a strong thigh juts forward, spreading his own as he enthusiastically reciprocates, hooking his ankle around the back of Dream’s knee. 

It’s an easy choice for him to seek friction, softly grinding his hips against the flat of Dream’s navel, and the other is happy to help, broad hand sliding down until it can tenderly grip the suppler flesh of his ass and guide his movements. 

George finally breaks away, loath to lose contact, but he has to pant against the other’s kiss-bitten lips as he feels himself start to get hard again. “Nnh- oh, Dream…” 

“So lovely for me, honey,” He croons, spare hand reaching in the narrow space between their bodies so he can wrap it around both of them, pressing unbearably sensitive skin against its twin. Dream makes the most beautiful sound at the new touch. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this: to make you really mine , and not in the way I normally do.”

George shudders in the heavy wake of his words, desperately rutting up into Dream’s hand and against his cock as melodic moans start to leak from his mouth. He’s desperate to smother them, and surges forward to capture the other’s lips beneath his own again, Dream positively melting back into it. Sound slips between them as friction makes him start to lose himself. 

Do the gods not consume? Do the gods not desire? If man was made in their image, is there not something divine to be found in surrender?

This isn’t what he’s used to feeling when he’s with Dream. Adrenaline isn’t sputtering in torrents through his blood, and even the damage George had suffered last night was no more than constellations of bite marks whose pain had mostly faded now that he’s spent a night in the other’s bed. His pleasure now is smooth and unruffled, rising as they move against each other, tangled in increasingly burning sheets and legs taking on a faint sheen of exertion. 

“I know I haven’t said it, but I fucking adore you, George,” Dream whispers against him, making George almost swallow his words, and his own breathing becomes ragged as they continue. He feels the other’s grip grow slick as they both start to leak in his hold. “The things you do to me—”

George can’t get enough of the other’s lips, and he can’t resist from seizing him roughly by the back of his head, gilted strands of hair between his fingers, and crashing their mouths together again in a blur of passion. Dream licks at his teeth, and he barely escapes from having his tongue bitten as George’s jaws clank together from trembling while the edge finally comes into view at last. It’s taken him almost no time at all, and he wants to feel embarrassment at it, but all he can feel is the hungry, tender press of Dream’s lips to his own. 

Absolution and ablution pass between their penitent mouths. It’s as if they kiss enough that all the weeks and weeks of confusion will cease to exist: nothing more than a ghost of a memory that haunts them on the coldest of pitch nights. George presses his forehead to Dream’s, grasp frenzied as he continues the movement of hips, pitched whines meeting the other’s low moans as he tries to use Dream’s presence to ground his slipping grip on reality. 

“Dream, please—” He heaves, eyes squeezing shut. “I need you, I need more .”

A kiss is pressed to the tip of his nose. “What do you need, love? I want to give it to you, give you every single thing that you want.”

George traces the scar low on Dream’s back: a delicate reminder of knowing him beyond the pleasure he can give. “Want you inside,” He whines, the muscles in his stomach trembling as he refuses to stop his movements, chasing satisfaction. “I’ve wanted it for so long: want to kiss you while you fuck me, please.”

“Yeah?” Dream plies, coffee and silk and all things lovely and smooth. “I can be sweet to you, honey, I promise. You deserve it.”

He murmurs out a plea in response and feels reverent fingers trail up and down the back of his thigh, on the leg Dream already has underhand. They slide back, toward more and more devious territory, and he keens as the anticipation builds in his lungs like turpentine fumes. His breath seizes and his back arches and Dream is—

---

“ Someone was having a very interesting dream.” That golden voice comes to him again, gravelled by sleep and made low by a lack of use.

The world arrives in piecemeal fractals, and George is confused for several long moments as he gets his bearings. Whatever he had just been experiencing had felt so fucking real and it’s incredibly disorienting reliving the exact same start of it. The sun is there, basking them in butter, and he’s draped over Dream like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Not particularly.” George finally responds, pressing his face into the other’s neck as he remembers that he’d been spoken to.

“George,” Dream softly plies, and he trails the hand resting on the crook of his waist lower, until it brushes delicate nerves. “You’ve been grinding against my thigh and making the sweetest little noises for the past fifteen minutes. Even woke me up with it. Something about it must’ve been just a bit… interesting.”

He turns a furious shade of scarlet, glad he’s hidden beneath the crook of Dream’s jaw. “Oh, my god. I am so sorry.”

Dream wheezes out a sugary laugh, which he feels beneath him as his chest shudders with the breaths. “You don’t need to apologize. Want me to take care of it for you, baby?”

“Wh- you don’t- that isn’t something you have to do, Dream. I can deal with it on my own.”

He giggles softly, long fingers lilting along what George now realizes is his very hard cock. “But I like the way you taste, and the way you fall apart even more. Let me?”

George’s breath shudders at the new feeling, and any half-baked defenses he would’ve thrown up out of embarrassment immediately wither on his tongue. He nods against tan skin, too bashful to respond. 

“Good boy.” Dream soothes, sliding away from him (he immediately misses his warmth) and gently manhandling his body so that George is now flat on his back. “You stay right there, and I’ll take care of everything, I promise. I want to give you everything that you want.”

The sentence— almost an exact echo from his dream— makes oxygen turn to alchemical lead in his throat. “O-okay.”

Dream slips beneath the blankets, content smirk hanging from his face when he disappears in the folds of fabric. Long fingers spread slim thighs as he settles between them, and the blond doesn’t waste any time in pressing his tongue against the head of George’s cock. 

He plasters his head to the pillow behind him, a soft moan leaving his mouth as his hands itch to bury themselves in golden hair. It isn’t like the last time Dream had done this; his movements are shallow and quick, clearly able to tell that George doesn’t have much left of his rope. The wet heat of his mouth is searing against his own delicate flesh, just as hot, and it doesn’t even take half a thought for him to remember where that tongue and those lips had been in his fevered imaginings. 

George wants it so badly that it hurts. He knows that nothing good can come about from even thinking about it because, at the end of the day, Dream had set so few clear boundaries and this was one of them. 

He feels greedy when he’s with Dream; selfish, eager, narcissistic. He’s never wanted so much, never before been reduced to such a bare, exposed nerve of desire. George spreads his legs wider and grips the sheets so hard that he swears he hears the thread count creak. 

“Close,” He warns, back arching, and his hips subconsciously thrust his cock deeper into Dream’s throat. “Shit, sorry.”

The other doesn’t respond from his half hidden perch, only softly coming to grip his bruised hips and sinking his mouth further down, clearly not all that disturbed at George’s abrupt movement. Thumbs rub over his hip bones, soothing and all too gentle considering what they normally do, and trace over the garters he still has wrapped around his waist. 

George can’t resist from just slightly lifting the blankets to look at him, perfectly obscene and gorgeous as he lies between his legs. Copper eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he focuses on taking George into his mouth, freckled cheeks hollowing out and filling with seventeen shades of blush. It’s unbelievably erotic, and arousal spikes deep in his stomach as he takes in the sight. Dream has done this before— this even, simmering gentility after the most intense parts of their time together had faded— but it still takes his breath away. He’s not used to being treated so delicately in Dream’s hands, but there’s no denying that he’s just as good at this as he is at absolutely wrecking him. 

“Ah, fuck, I’m—” George feels that telltale coil tighten low in his stomach, electricity racing down every limb until it bounces around his hands and traces the swirling patterns on his fingertips. 

He doesn’t have to finish, Dream tightening his grip and taking more of George’s cock, rubbing his tongue exactly where he needs it, and that’s all it takes. 

It’s not particularly intense, more like a calm high tide of ecstasy as he spills inside of Dream’s waiting mouth, but it leaves him softly gasping while he floats into that clouded space. The ceiling is suddenly much more fascinating than it ever had been, swirling with floaters and colors that aren’t there as he starts to come down, quiet moans leaking from him while he catches his breath and Dream licks him clean, sending up flares of oversensitivity that turn his moans to whimpers. That serves as his cue to finally withdraw and re-emerge from the sheets. 

Dream has a ridiculous smile on his face, small and curved as he flops down next to him again and wipes his mouth. His eyes are slightly teary, and his cheeks dusted dark with mantling. “See? Aren’t you glad you let me handle that?” 

He wonders, if he kissed Dream now, if he’d be able to taste himself on his tongue. He wants to kiss that stupid, self-satisfied grin off of his far too pink lips. He wants to know what Dream would sound like gasping into his mouth, murmuring sweet nothings as they hovered, millimeters apart. He wants to softly bite at his bottom lip; taste the tang of iron as he drowns. This is so much more than he bargained for when he reached out to a man on an anonymous message board who was just supposed to be exceedingly good at tying him up and making him come so hard he forgot his name. 

This isn’t good.

Fuck .

Notes:

Purple prose and tenderness are definitely my normal wheelhouse, so it was nice to put a little bit of that on this account, too. This is definitely a turning point chapter so I hope that came through :)

In case you were curious/wanted visuals, most of the… attire this chapter was pulled from/inspired by a small women’s atelier in London called Bordelle. They don’t do corsetry (which is an absolute SHAME imo), but the entire ensemble below the waist was pulled directly from there. If you’ve got money, definitely check them out; I got two small embroidered pieces last year from a very rare sale (on a line that’s unfortunately long sold out now), and they’re easily some of the most beautifully-made things I own. They're specifically what I used for this chapter, and I can post visual aids on twitter if anyone wants them lol

Come follow me on twitter for updates, general bullshit, and eventually art, or add me on discord if you want to chat (ess#9291)! I might like getting bitten, but I don't bite I promise!

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Chapter 8: Something Blue

Summary:

George can’t stop thinking: about him, about this. He hates it, and Dream only makes it so much more difficult.

Notes:

First off: holy SHIT thank you for ONE THOUSAND kudos. That’s absolutely ridiculous guys, seriously: thank you so much for liking my very explicit porn lol. I still don't quite understand it, but hey, I'm not complaining!

Also want to clarify some questions I've been getting:
-yes, you can do fanart of this! just credit/tag me!
-yes, you can message me whenever about whatever :)

Anyway, moving on, we’ve got something a bit… different this chapter.

Typical stuff: don’t repost, don’t share to CCs, and if their boundaries ever change, this will be taken down in order to reflect that.

Thanks to my lovely beta readers (find them on my carrd!):
-snap
-blackberry/dnf_fics
-and bri

What the fuck am I doing?

George has asked himself this question many, many times over his approximately two and half decades of life. He’d asked it halfway through a brutal fight with his ex, the third one that week; he’d asked it when a string of rash, unthinking decisions led to him standing in the middle of an American police station for underaged drinking; he’d asked it when he’d realized, in the middle of a final exam, that he hated maths and desperately needed to change majors. 

This time, he asks it while wondering what sort of restaurant Dream would take him to on a date.

How he’s gotten here is still a mystery to him, really. After a few too many days of thinking, he’s put the timeline together, piece by fractured piece, and it looks something like this:

 

First, George decides that he wants to give this “tie me up” thing a try, but he’s too nervous to do anything in person, so he’ll start on a local message board to help abate his nerves. There’s no way he can work up the courage to go to any of the clubs on the North Side just yet.

Second, he spots a man who frequents the forums and goes by Dream. To boot, he seems to have a decent bit of experience with this sort of stuff. He’s not the only one he finds, though, so he waits.

Third, he decides to message Dream, along with two others. One never responded, the other was a bit of an asshole who was far too enthusiastic about putting a gag in his mouth, and then there was Dream: he wrote back, and it turns out that he was really fucking nice.

Fourth, they talk for a while and eventually go through with it. Dream ties him up, he marks him a thousand times over, and makes him come so hard he briefly forgets how to see. 

Fifth, they do it again. And again. And a few more times, for good measure. It never gets any less incredible. 

And sixth? Well, now he’s trying to guess whether Dream is the sort of man to take him to the aquarium for a first date, or if he would prefer some hole-in-the-wall gem hidden in the West Loop that serves veal so tender it melts on his tongue. There are steps missing here but, for the life of him, he cannot actually figure out what they are, let alone where they occurred.

 

In that way, he supposes it had been slow: a steady, exponential arc of emotion that suddenly surpassed some limit he wasn’t aware even existed. George has been infatuated before— too many times, quite frankly— and this isn’t the same. He realizes now that what stirs in his chest when he’s faced with that soft smile Dream reserves just for him, when they’re bathed in afterglow, or when reverent hands softly caress him between stinging hits, is something else: it’s a steadily-fed ember, just on the verge of bursting into flame. Someone else’s hand had kept it well-tended, guiding it under their care until they decided to unceremoniously drop it into George’s completely unprotected palms. Now, he’s left holding sparks that he can’t explain, but still scorch him nonetheless, unbearably real. 

This is more than infatuation, and that makes it dangerous.

George is having this conversation with himself on the Green Line train as it snakes its way down the gap between opposing lanes of traffic. The metallic cars, faintly catching the early rays of winter sun, shudder on the tracks and softly jostle him in his seat. Stiff, worn plastic slides beneath him, and a steel pole juts hard into one of his knees as the press of rush hour traffic fills almost every spare ounce of air in the car. He’s honestly lucky that no one has stepped on his toes yet. Each sway of the cars is accompanied by that unique, low-throated rattle of lines on track, and the gentle murmuring of an anonymous crowd.

Realizing all of this hasn’t exactly been something he’s happy about. In any other situation involving him, another person, and regularly hooking up, this is something he could deal with. He’d initiate the discussion, and hate the way it made him feel so vulnerable, and if things fell through? Then he moved on. If they worked out? Then he had a new person in his life. But, those same rules of engagement simply can’t apply to Dream.

Boundaries: stiff, unyielding, certain. Their… relationship is defined by them. It isn’t as though there’s a contract between him and Dream that outlines everything that they can and cannot do, but there might as well be. This isn’t quite business, but it’s not just pleasure, either. And, the worst part about it all? George had walked into it completely willingly. He had known what he was getting himself into: he knew how hard he was allowed to push, knew where the line in sand lay. There isn’t a conversation they can have, just a little drunk on cheap wine just a little too late at night, that would be able to resolve this. He can almost see the attempt, as clear as day in his mind. He goes to Dream, he tells the other that the things he makes him feel are just a little too big to stay stuck behind his ribs and he lets himself be honest for once. Aureate eyes would fix him with that painful intensity they always held, but they would also be tinged with a bitter pity that clawed its way out from the unending depths of his pupils. 

George, I’m sorry, but that isn’t what this is supposed to be. I thought you knew that. 

He can see Dream’s lips move in slow motion as he says it, and the sheer thought of it makes him softly tap his forehead against the cold metallic pole right next to him. This isn’t a viable option: it never was, and it never will be. It would be healthier to acknowledge that now, lest he be drawn even further into an orbit around Dream that was strewn with the debris of past crashed satellites; despite that, he doesn’t want to stop.

George wants to stop this traitorous longing he feels, of course: the acidic, curling want that’s so much more than sexual and has been known to tear him to pieces in dalliances past. That part isn’t up for debate. But, he doesn’t want to stop seeing Dream. 

Perhaps he’s only being selfish by hanging onto a neuron-scrambling pleasure that he doesn’t think he could bear to part with right now. George adores the way that Dream makes him feel, from how he never bruises him in the same place twice, to how his broad hands feel crawling up his body in the dizzying moments of the after that are suspended before sleep. He adores how he shares easy smiles with him, and how he dotes over his cat at the breakfast table. He adores the way his eyebrows tip up when he laughs, how his jaw looks slack in pleasure, how warm his eyes are when—

No . Fuck, he needs to stop this before it gets worse. 

George isn’t giving this arrangement up, and that’s theoretically an easy goal. He’s lived out a thousand crushes over the years, unrequited and perfectly oblivious, so what’s one more? Dream will fuck him until George feels like he’s never even heard of the cardinal directions, and he can ignore his own want when he does that. It’s easy to forget a lot when they’re in the middle of it, but it’s harder after: after, when he’s vulnerable and exhausted and flooded with the sticky aftershocks of pleasure that weaken every single one of his emotional defenses. He just needs to keep his guard up, and he’ll be fine. He will! He’ll be perfectly fine.

He only has two days until he sees Dream again. Half of the week has already passed since the last time he’d been taken apart, and the lingerie he’d worn then lies abandoned— halfway out of shame once he’d realized the reason he’d worn it in the first place— in the back of his dresser. George understands now why he’d spent so much money on it and why he’d gone so far out of his way to surprise the other man, and it only falls into the new pile of tangled emotions which he would honestly rather burn to a crisp than properly deal with.

The announcer’s voice patches through the speakers buried in the flickering ceiling overhead, smooth but still not nearly as lovely as Dream’s. Wouldn’t that be a way to go about his commute: with mercury tones calling out each stop as he goes. 

It’s time for him to weave his way through far too many people, bumping shoulders and muttering apologies along the way, so that he can step out into the dim concrete underground, rife with flickering lights and signs littered with deadened pixels speckled across their wind-battered corners. He’s always preferred the above-ground stations, truth be told: open air and sunlight filtering through scratched glass roofs. Those buried this far underground carry a mantle of fatigue and darkness that he doesn’t care for, despite the fact that he adores the black of night. 

This is just another day to him. He’ll head to work, he’ll finish his day at work while managing not to pull his hair out, then he’ll run errands before heading home. The only difference is that, today, he can’t rid his thoughts of gilted eyes gleaming with mischievous adoration and hands that make his knees feel weak. He tries shaking his head as he reemerges above ground, letting the physicality of it and the shock of frozen gales push it from his mind for at least a desperate moment. He hates being lovesick like this; it’s the worst feeling in the fucking world.

Like always, George heads to work, he finishes his day at work while managing not to pull his hair out, then he runs errands before heading home. Dream never leaves him.

He just wants it to stop.

---

“Hey, can we do something a little different tonight?” Dream is watching George, who’s perched on one of the barstools that ring the small peninsula in his kitchen, and waiting for him to finish the dinner he’d brought with him from work. 

He tosses a gaze Dream’s way, pad thai that glistens with just a little too much peanut oil dangling from two-cent disposable chopsticks halfway to his mouth. George can still feel a handful of splinters protruding from the ends, where they’d been snapped apart by lithe fingers. “How d’you mean?” His words are muffled by vegetables and shrimp. 

He’s never been able to tell quite how he does it, but Dream’s eyes are absolutely searing when they meet his, like he’s being peeled back layer by layer. There’s also the fact that he’s now aware of exactly why it makes his heart rate tick up, but that’s a matter he doesn’t need to think about at the moment. “Well, I have to be honest with you, baby: I’m sometimes just a little bit jealous of you.”

The tangle of noodles is slowly lowered back to the greasy styrofoam container from which they’d come, emblazoned with stock image silhouettes of generic southeast Asian landmarks that he’s been told are usually in warm carnelian. The smell of sauteed scallions and soy still lingers. “I’ll ask again, because I apparently wasn’t clear enough the last time around: what on earth do you mean?”

Dream laughs at that, bright and clear as he drapes himself over the back of his couch. He’s reminded of just how good he looks in leather. “Well, Georgie,” He lilts, face draped in mischief and a cockiness that still makes something inside of him seethe and peak. “I’m asking if you’d be interested in letting me take that pretty little cock of yours.”

It takes him a moment to even process the words themselves, let alone the meaning behind them. George blinks at him several times, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. “I-I’m sorry, if I’d be interested in what now?”

“You do always like to ask questions. I find it just a bit endearing, you know,” His voice is gradually slipping lower, smoothening with the clear intention of catching George hook, line, and sinker. That never takes all that long. “What I’m trying so desperately to say is that it’s been a little while since I’ve had anything inside me, and it’s starting to get to me. I’m a bit pent up; it’s just such a different kind of feeling, you know?”

The chopsticks leave his fingers, fractured ends almost catching enough in his skin to stick. “I’m- I can’t- you know that I’m not the dominant person in these scenarios of ours, Dream. I didn’t come to you for that.”

The blond stares at him, frozen for a moment, but it’s hardly a breath later that furious laughter is bubbling up from his chest, morphing into threadbare wheezes and squeaks that leave George just a bit confused. “Oh, baby, no. No, no: I will still be in charge. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a fucking second. I don’t switch like that.”

“Then what exactly is it that you’re proposing?” He swivels in his chair so that he can more clearly face Dream, and study him with more efficiency. 

“Well,” Dream rises from the couch, briefly stretching, which tugs up his jumper to reveal just enough skin to be tantalizing. Has he always had freckles down by his hips ? “The way that I like it to go,” He strides over to George and spins him in his chair so that he faces away from him, before creeping hands slide down his arms and he feels searing breath right next to his ear. If he focuses, hard enough, he can sense wayward strands of gold tickling his temple. “Is that I get you nice and tied down, just about as unable to touch me as you can be. Then, I just make you watch .”

George’s breathing shudders as he subtly squeezes his thighs together to curb his enthusiasm. “Wh- what do you make me watch?” He pauses for a moment before adding: “Sir.”

There’s a laugh pressed into his skin as teeth gently tug on his earlobe. “Well,” His tongue makes a flash of an appearance before retreating, not to be seen. “You would never get to prep me; that’s out of the question. Maybe I’ll slip something inside you while you watch; make you get real needy.”

George lets his eyes fall shut as he imagines the sight, Dream’s chest flushing as he worked himself open, soft gasps cascading from his mouth and hips moving subconsciously while he kneels on the bed before him, tempting and all too far away. “What’d you do next?”

Dream sucks a soft bruise high on his throat— high enough that no collar could ever hope to cover it, marking him for the entire world to see— before whispering against the damage he’d done. “Wouldn’t you just love to know, baby?”

Oh, he would. God , he would. “What made you want to do this?” He asks instead, struggling to keep his fluttering heart rate from ticking up even further where it already pounds against the walls of his carotid. 

There’s a hum of contemplation as more bruises are stamped into the fragile skin of his throat, earlier in the night than they tend to be. Despite a seemingly eager boldness, when his words begin anew, his voice is back to its normal, conversational timbre. “I don’t know. I mean, we’ve been doing this for almost two months now, so I guess I feel comfortable with you? If you don’t feel great about it, obviously no pressure; we can just stick to the regular order.”

George blinks into Dream’s kitchen, a bit startled by the admission. He trusts him; Dream trusts him . It only takes a moment to think back to that late night admission: It feels nice to be trusted. “No, I- I’m fine with it. I just didn’t expect it, is all. Never pegged you as the kind of guy.”

“What?” Dream snorts, question teasing. “The kind of guy who also likes taking someone else? My philosophy is that if it feels good,” He bites down hard at the juncture where George’s shoulder meets his neck, and he gasps. “Then it’s good. And I don’t think I even have to ask if you think the, uh… proposed activity feels nice. You definitely scream enough for me to know your answer.”

Reeling from the bite and face furiously red from bashfulness, it takes him a moment to compose his words. “Well, it’s- that’s not my fault.” George grumbles, trying to coyly turn away from Dream’s chasing teeth, but they follow. 

“I’m just teasing you, baby,” He reassures, hands now wrapping fully around his waist and pulling him as far back in the barstool as he can: as close to him as he can. “Didn’t mean to make you so flustered. Although, that is a good look for you; you look so pretty in color.”

I think he’d take me to the aquarium. 

George desperately wants to layer his arms over Dream’s where they grip him, wants to tilt back into his embrace and expose the column of his throat even more to his playful abuse. Instead, he grips the counter like his life depends on it, knowing that it’s a bad idea. He has to be careful now: he can’t forget that. “That’s alright. I would, uh- I’d be up to try it.”

He can practically feel Dream beaming where his chin is propped up against George’s shoulder, and it’s hardly a moment later that one of those broad hands slips from where it’s groping his waist so that it can cleanly grab his discarded chopsticks and swipe a heavy clump of noodles into his mouth. 

“Hey!” George protests, shoving Dream away, who’s doing his best to giggle around the large tangle of rice noodles he’d taken. “You motherfucker, that’s my dinner! Get something from your own fridge!”

“But ‘s good,” He manages, smiling— for the first time in George’s memory— without showing his teeth, rose-kissed lips spread taut to hide the rows of pearls beneath them. “Haven’t had pad thai in like… months, I swear. Lemme have some.”

George scowls at him, hand darting out to yank the chopsticks from the other’s hold. “If you’d asked, I might’ve let you take some, but now I’m refusing out of principle.”

He whines, finally swallowing his stolen goods. “Georgie, come on,” He draws out the last o , sounding more like a petulant child than a fully adult man with an apartment, a job, and a ridiculous amount of skill in the bedroom. “Please? 

All he responds with is a scoff, popping another piece of shrimp into his mouth indignantly and glaring only half-serious daggers Dream’s way. “Why? You’ve got food in your fridge.”

Dream wraps strong arms around him again, the fabric of his jumper just barely tickling his chin  as he clings to him like a frightened animal. “Come on, now. Let me have some, doll, please?”

“Still haven’t answered my question.” George replies, continuing to eat his dinner and doing his best to ignore the blush that rises to his cheeks at this gentle domesticity. 

Dream groans, loud and ugly next to his ear. “I just want noodles, George. What do I need to do? What will make you give me like… five bites of your dinner?” One of his hands creeps down, clearly suggesting what sort of trade he would like to make.

Kiss me . “Are you seriously trying to trade, like… sexual favors for a quarter of my office-provided take-out?” 

“Maybe,” He’s rapidly moving on from obnoxious to seductive, far too close to his ear for comfort. “Come on, let me have your pad thai, George. What’ll it take?” His voice slips lower, jasmine and supple citrus. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kiss me like you fucking mean it. “Maybe just give me something that I can redeem another time.”

“Can I give it an expiration date?”

He scoffs, the noise grating on even his own ears, and goes to drag Dream’s wayward hand upward so that he doesn’t get hard before he’s even done with dinner. “Fine, get a fork.”

The cheer that comes from Dream’s mouth is so exuberant that he feels like an excessively tall child is standing behind him. He can’t help but roll his eyes at it but, at the same time, feels soft blush rise to his cheeks at the sweetness of his excitement over something as simple as mediocre take-out. 

After muddling through his utensil drawer, Dream plops down next to him, chopsticks in hand. George slides the container over so that it’s between the two of them, and their knees bump together when they go to take their next bites. 

“Mm, that’s good.” Dream declares, presumably actually taking his time to taste the food before swallowing it to prove a point.

George kicks him softly under the countertop, the tip of his socked foot colliding with Dream’s boney ankle. “So, what’s the expiration date?”

Dream makes a noise of confusion, meeting his eyes as he slurps more noodles into his mouth. The sight makes his heart tick a little too hard for his liking. Why, he couldn’t be sure: he looks objectively a mess, a bean sprout sticking out from between his lips and a bit of sauce speckling just beneath them like his stubble. 

God, he’s absolutely fucked. 

“Of- of the uh, unredeemed favor you gave me. You asked for an expiration date.”

He tilts his head, a smile clinging softly to his lips. “George, I was just kidding. If you want me to do something, just ask.”

Please, I just want you to fucking kiss me. 

He knows that he can’t ask for that. “Alright.” Is what he settles on instead, swatting Dream’s chopsticks away from a particularly large shrimp so that he can take it for himself. He can practically feel the other pout in his periphery. 

They take their time with dinner, eating together and taking jabs over stupid stories and random bits of news from their offices, or around the city: a weirdly unanticipated name change of a busy thoroughfare, the opening of a new farmer’s market on the North Side, one of George’s coworkers growing weirdly— and very publicly— obsessed with wreathes, despite the fact that Christmas was two months ago. It feels something like peace, gentle and even, and the sporadic taps of Dream’s shin against his feet remind him of his stable presence. It’s easy, like this, and he doesn’t like dwelling on just how much it feels like what he actually wants. 

“Are you, um- when can we start?” He fiddles with a tiny crumb of crushed peanut, squeaking it against the styrofoam. 

Dream’s face splits. “That desperate to get inside of me, Georgie?”

He sulks, refusing a response. 

Suddenly, George is grabbed by the chin, long fingers gripping his jaw and pulling him closer so that Dream can hiss directly into his ear. “Don’t forget who’s in control here. You might not be getting fucked this time around, but never think, for a second , that you have any power. Is that understood?” His words are searing; they turn him inside out. 

“Yes, sir.” George breathes as reply, painfully aware of their proximity.

Thankfully, his hold doesn’t linger for long, releasing him with a slight push. “Ignore the dishes. Bedroom, now.”

When he speaks like that, George has no real room for complaint: partially because it’s such an unyielding command, partially because the tone in his voice strips every ounce of inhibition from his body. He slips from the barstool, socked feet softly colliding with the hardwoods before they can carry him toward the bedroom, winding rivers around islands of couches and coffee tables and limp but not yet wilting potted plants. The door frame seems to glow in the hallway as he approaches, draped in sanctimony, anticipation, and an ineffable sense of lust that he can never shake when he lays eyes on the chipped white paint of its wood. Here is where George can become someone else: someone who doesn’t have his inhibitions, who is honest with his desires, who lets himself not care about anything other than finding his own end for a couple of hours. 

Now that he’s hiding his wants, though, passing through it feels like heresy; he feels like he’s desecrating sacred ground and, the moment he goes through the threshold, a part of him withers.

Dream doesn’t wait, and his hands are on him in a moment, sliding beneath his jumper, but not going any higher than the very bottom of his ribs. His nails scratch softly into the sensitive skin there, and George can’t stop the quick gasp that breaks the silence of the room. 

“Are you going to be good, or do I have to do it myself, since I already have to do so much?” Dream questions, harsh and ruthless, as though his tone were made of honed steel. 

“I- I can, sir.” He stammers, waiting for Dream to withdraw before he grapples for the hem the blond’s owning touches had left behind. 

There’s nothing seductive when he does this. Each crook and curve of his body is filled with a winding desperation that only lets him tear cloth from himself as though he were on fire. A jumper, pants, socks, boxers: all an inconsequential blur as they fall to the ground. He’s getting used to being so bare and exposed in this room, and the anticipation of what will inevitably come next makes him start to get hard where he stands and carefully watches Dream grab whatever it is that he needs. 

George is able to sit and drink him in, eyes roaming the other’s back. His tall, lean figure cuts a smooth silhouette against the dark shelves he stands in front of, emphasizing the subtle broadness of his shoulders and the juts of their blades below, like nascent wings trapped beneath petty fabric. His waist seems beautifully narrow like this, and George is aware of how lucky he is that this man is the one who makes him taste oblivion. 

The object of his desire finally turns around, a bundle of ropes and a handful of objects cupped in his fingers. His face slips dark once he sees George standing before him, exposed and taking on blush as he feels appraising eyes finally drag along the contours of his body. “There we are,” Dream almost sings, eyes turning half-lidded. “So good and pliant.”

He watches in slow motion as Dream sets the items on the bed and then goes to grab George by the waist, easily lifting him while he flails. He doesn’t even have time to grab for Dream’s shoulders to steady himself before he’s pressed to the mattress with bruising force. He can’t stop his cock from twitching in interest at the rough handling.

“Spread your legs,” He orders, one hand keeping its iron grip on George’s waist while the other one grabs for something off to the side. “Need to get you ready.”

To say he’s confused is a bit of an understatement. He hasn’t been tied and, as far as he had been made aware, he wouldn’t be receiving tonight. “Why are- what?”

Dream smiles sadistically down at him, eyebrows quirking in amusement. “I told you I wanted you needy tonight, baby,” He explains, and George doesn’t miss the bottle of lube and the toy sat just to Dream’s left. “So, before I tie you up, I’ve got to get things set up to really make you desperate.” He pauses for a moment, watching him with a spearing intensity. “You alright?”

He shudders, but responds with an affirmation before he parts his thighs nonetheless to give Dream access, turning his face to the side in a bid to abate his embarrassment. It isn’t long until spindled fingers come to tilt his jaw again, pushing him back to center before tugging down just slightly so that his lips can part. He looks expectantly at Dream, not exactly sure what he’s meant to be waiting for, but he doesn’t let a single complaint fall from his mouth. He’ll be good.

“You remember this?” Dream holds up a familiar, little blue shape, tipping it back and forth between spread fingers to emphasize it. 

George nods, because of course he does. He remembers writhing, deprived of his sight for the first time, while it made him come; and he remembers sliding it back inside of himself as his emotional turmoil toward Dream first started to demand it be expressed. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good. You’d best get reacquainted.” It’s hardly a moment later that Dream brings the toy to his mouth and pushes in, where it settles— heavy and unexpected— on his tongue. 

He makes a noise. It isn’t quite a gag, but it’s not a moan, either. George is surprised by the intrusion, and it takes him a minute to remember what his tongue is designed for. He lets his eyelids fall shut as he goes about slicking the silicone, the taste not all that welcoming. Dream hums softly to himself, as though he were just doing a thoughtless chore, while he fucks George’s mouth with the toy, softly thrusting it deep enough to make him choke, and then withdrawing just enough so that the flared base knocks against his teeth before he repeats. 

It’s absolutely profane, and he feels like he’s being treated as less than even an object. Something in him sparks when the thought enters his mind. 

Eventually, Dream gives him his next orders. “Open, and spread your legs a little more. I’m trusting you to behave even though you aren’t tied up right now.”

He does as he’s asked, parting his lips and his thighs in tandem, and watching as a thin trail of his own saliva sticks to the toy. Jesus. “Yes, sir.”

Always one for safety, Dream adds a helping of lube to the slick coating George’s own mouth had already left behind, and grasps his hip roughly to steady him. “Once this is done, I’m doing your hands together, and your feet together. Nothing complicated tonight, okay?” He’s back to himself for all but a moment, simply relaying basic information and not commanding him. 

George responds in kind, just as lax as the other had been, and tilts his hips so that he has an easier time rocking the tip of the thing in and out of him while he works him open gradually. 

“There we are, keep relaxing for me, baby,” Dream coos, thumb rubbing over his hipbone in a tender gesture of delicate care. “You’ve already taken half of it already: you didn’t prep yourself, did you?”

He flushes, head turning resolutely to the side. “I- no, I didn’t. Not at all.”

Dream laughs low, darkly satisfied. “Well, you must’ve been reliving our little encounters quite a bit this week, hmm?”

Late evening memories flash through his mind, nearly every night this week: sticky sheets, slick hands and slicker thighs, strangled cries as he sobs Dream’s name, crying out for more than he knows he can have. He doesn’t want to think about them. “Maybe.”

“So fucking needy.” It’s accompanied with a slightly sharper push that makes him finally finish his job, and George arches at the intrusion. “Let’s turn this on, and then I’ll get you tied up. No squirming, do you hear me?”

“I’ll do my best.” He says, truthful. 

A heavy sigh permeates the air between them. “Your best isn’t enough. When I say no squirming, I expect to not see you move, is that understood?”

George nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes, sir. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His sentence isn’t punctuated by a full stop or an exclamation, a trailing off or a question; it’s punctuated by vibrations— just too slow to be satisfying— starting up inside of him. 

“Oh god .”

Dream withdraws to get those lovely loops of hedonism that make George remember why he’s in this predicament in the first place. He’s chasing after a man he cannot have, one who gives him the most tantalizing glimpses of heaven without even being aware of it, because he saw a video when he was a teenager of a woman tied in knots. God, the universe works in strange and cruel ways, doesn’t it?

At this point, his cock only lies half-hard on his stomach, and he’s confident that Dream won’t make him fall to pieces for a while yet. He focuses on steadying his breath and tracing nonexistent patterns in the ceiling as he feels large hands draw his legs closer together, evening them out so that their owner can begin to loop the cotton line around George’s ankles. First, it’s his left ankle this time, and he wraps rope once, twice, three times before dropping it softly to the bed and going to repeat the exact same process on its twin. 

“You know, I never really understood that whole thing Victorians had about ankles being scandalous or whatever,” Dream rambles as his fingers begin to set up knots: to be pulled taut later. “But you make me get it, I think. They’re so delicate; so pretty, like you.”

At this moment in time, George is laid out like a display, entirely naked, on this man’s bed with a vibrator inside of him, but this is what makes his face take on furious scarlet. 

Dream chooses to be merciful and not comment on his very obvious fluster, and just continues his work. It’s like it always is: slow, careful, and gentle. Even when rope is pulled tight, nothing is harsh about it. There will be plenty of time for cruelty later, but for now, he is anything but inhuman. It’s still strange to see these two sides of Dream, and how quickly he can switch between the two of them. He’s the same person, that much is obvious, but with only a breath, he can make George fall to pieces with a selection of not just one but two torturous methods. It’s like every single part of him was designed specifically to make him weak in the knees, and he hates it.

“Pull.”

That first glorious bite of the night comes as rope digs into tender flesh, chafing against it with all the delicacy of a stumbling predator. George has to sink his teeth into his tongue to stop himself from crying out. “Not too tight.”

His hands are always worse— now more so than ever— because Dream is so goddamn close to him like this. It’s a hell of a lot harder to ignore how beautiful the angles of his cheekbones are, how generous the curve of his jaw is, how his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he blinks. George can even hear the knots when they’re tied, rope sliding against rope, fiber against fiber. He has to close his eyes tonight so that the other’s simple presence isn’t too much for him, but even putting up the veil of eyelid-darkened blackness doesn’t stop his cock from taking on interest.

Dream does his wrists separately first, much preferring to have him tied up with guarantees instead of binding them together without anything in between. His fingers glance along the thin skin covering George’s veins, sending gooseflesh down his arms until it can crest over his shoulders and make him shudder. 

“So sensitive, aren’t you?” Dream intentionally curls his fingertips so that short nails drag over the inside of his wrists just-so. “I love that about you. It’s just so easy to absolutely ruin you.”

“I—” He stammers, trying to come up with excuses that don’t involve hopeless pining and desperate arousal. 

Dream shushes him instead, tutting immediately afterward. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain. I understand.”

You don’t , he thinks to himself. You really don’t. You never will. But, he isn’t a fool, so he holds his tongue. 

The instruction comes again. He follows his commands. Dream praises him. It all goes to order. 

The next part is where the departures begin, and they’re entering new territory. Dream traces a finger down one of George’s bound arms until it can skip empty air and glance just barely on his cheekbone. “You wanna watch me, baby? Want to watch me work myself open so I can use you?”

George nods, starting to scrape his cheeks raw from withholding his desire so much already. 

“Words, Georgie. We’ve talked about this.”

He takes in a quick gasp of air, hoping that it will steady him (ultimately, nothing really can when it comes to Dream). “Yes, sir, please. I want to watch you.”

“Fucking voyeur,” He teases, sliding George’s eyelids shut for him to emphasize his point. “But I’ll give you a lovely show, doll, I promise. You’re so lucky to be part of this tonight, you know.” The last part isn’t a question: it’s a statement of fact, an acknowledgement of how horrendously George wants him in any way that he can have him.

He swallows hard, Dream’s fingertips still keeping his eyelids gently shut. “I know I am. Thank you, sir.”

The blond hums as he withdraws his touch, finally letting George take advantage of his own sight again. “Good boy. I’m glad you know your place in this bedroom.” 

He steps away entirely, and George watches, rapt and hungry, as he pulls his hoodie from his body, no shirt beneath it to hide the lean muscle of his torso. It’s tossed somewhere off to the side, and he goes to undo the fasteners on his joggers, whose dark fabric does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s clearly very much looking forward to what he’s outlined for tonight. 

George salivates at each new sliver of skin that’s exposed, freckles dusting him in sun-given handfuls and highlighting the ridges of his body in the most wonderful way. His skin is practically cluttered with them in places, and it’s such a stark contrast to the absolutely void expanses of George’s own body. He hungers and he craves as Dream sheds the last of the fabric keeping him hidden, and comes to kneel on the bed in a perverse form of prayer before crawling closer.

Dream straddles him, tan thighs almost jarring against his own alabaster skin. He’s heavy, more dense muscle than George has been aware of, despite knowing his strength in every form of its expression. It’s almost satisfying, somehow: the weight a grounding reminder of their slightly reversed roles. 

George wants nothing more than to caress his lean thighs, to grab him by the hips and knead there as he marvels. He wants to slide his hands up, up, up until he can catch the back of Dream’s neck with both palms and pull him down into a searing kiss: the kind that makes you forget that your mouth is only your own, and your teeth ache from the intensity of it all. If he had his choice, he’d push Dream down into the mattress so that he could watch his chest bloom with pleasure and his head plaster its gold-crowned self against dark sheets. God, he’d look stunning like that.

Instead, George’s arms twitch weakly in their bonds while he feels his cock throb from need and a growing sense of neglect. Dream is looking down at him like a serpent fit for Eden, viperous desire capturing George until he can hardly breathe in its stranglehold, let alone resist original sin. If he looks close enough, he could almost swear he sees slitted pupils.

“Like the view, Georgie?” His hands trace down his own body, sliding along his hips and briefly wrapping around his cock as if to emphasize just how out-of-reach he was for George. 

“I- I do.”

Dream stops drawing patterns on his thighs to smirk down at him. “Oh, I’m going to have fun drawing this out. I bet you just wish you I was fucking you open instead.”

He swears he’s starting to taste the copper tang of blood where he bites down on his lip.

The gaze he’s been fixed with by golden eyes is piercing: half-lidded and lethal. Every shift of his body is intentional as he sets up a lascivious display for the man beneath him. The way he just handles the simple bottle of lube makes George’s imagination begin to turn, every arch of his fingers filled with suggestion and sex. 

When he finally reaches back to slip a finger inside of himself, Dream makes the sweetest little noise, his cock jumping in interest as he starts to thrust in and out of himself. “Been a little while since I did this,” He teases, starting to drop his hips to meet the movements of his hand. “I bet I’ll be nice and tight around you; you’ll hardly last tonight.”

“I- I only have bad stamina when you really take me apart.”

He quirks an eyebrow, the blush on his face starting to glaze his cheeks. “And you think this is going to be any different? Just because I’m not filling you up doesn’t mean I won’t take you apart, baby.”

George has to swallow hard, the grinding of Dream’s hips— right on top of him— not helping the increasingly heated temperature of his fevered imaginings. “So you’re planning on hurting me?”

“Absolutely not,”  He laughs, somehow sadistic despite what he’d only just said. “Tonight, I intend on doing everything for myself. I don’t want to do shit for you. I’m always giving you everything you need: fucking you open, making you scream on my cock, painting your skin with such pretty bruises. I want to use you tonight, and nothing else. This is about me, for once.”

The words settle heavy in the pit of George’s stomach, bleeding over into vicious arousal hardly a moment later, and the vibrations inside of him suddenly seem a lot harder to ignore. He knows that Dream will still take care of him and make sure he leaves satisfied, but he likes being able to imagine that, just this once, he won’t. That he’ll truly be a means to an end and nothing else. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been so selfish.”

“Do you mean that?” He asks, expression no longer quite as unreadable and instead belying a gentle undercurrent of softness. “Or is this pushing it?”

“No, I mean it,” His response is rushed but sincere. He might be feeling a little too much for Dream— sentiment overflowing his cup until the room began to flood— but being used like this? That’s something he wants independent of all of this encroaching mess. “I’ve been so selfish.”

Satisfied with his answer, Dream lets out a moan that’s a little strained, clearly having added more fingers to work himself open further. He’s moving quickly, and George burns with lust when he realizes he must have at least prepped himself a bit before they’d met that night. “You have been. God, you’re such a slut. All you do is take. You get to give tonight.”

“Yes, please, use me tonight. I promise I’ll make you feel good.” He takes a moment to recall back to that first night, when he’d been too embarrassed to even voice his arousal, let alone speak so freely like this. It’s hardly been two months, and George has blossomed in these sheets. He’s someone else now: finally acknowledging a part of him that he thought he would have to keep shamefully hidden from partners for god only knows how long. Here, he isn’t George: a software engineer who works too many hours and dotes on his cat and likes sushi. Here: he’s just Dream’s, nothing else. 

He adores this. 

The man perched atop his thighs positively glows with sick pleasure with his response. “Good boy. Keep being so fucking filthy for me; that’s what you’re good for.” 

Dream’s language is starting to edge into newer territory. It’s a little harsher, a little hungrier, and confused flares light up George’s lungs. It feels... awful, being debased like this but, at the same time: Dream is right. He knows that he is, and that’s what he likes about all of this, anyway. Why should he hate hearing it? It’s what he wants to hear and, if nothing else, it will help him forget the aching tenderness he lavishes him with at other times. 

As he’s in the middle of contemplating all of this, the man occupying much of his thoughts these days lets out a loud, low moan, tilting his hips forward just a bit as he clearly finds exactly where he wants his long fingers to be. George makes a little noise as he recalls Dream doing the exact same to him with that shatteringly painful expertise of his. He wants it; he misses it. Having Dream like this will be incredible, he doesn’t even need to second-guess as much, but there’s something about having the other inside of him that he doesn’t think could ever be overtaken. 

“Bet you wish this was you right now,” Dream mocks, almost reading his mind as he starts to softly pant. “God, I’m curling my fingers just fucking right, doll. Right where I need them- oh!”

George watches, his own hips struggling to stay still, as Dream’s cock bobs against his stomach and starts to leak from the stimulation. He clearly isn’t just putting on a show for the sake of riling him up. His back forms a single, elegant arc that pushes him just far enough that the outline of his ribs grows clear. If he’d thought Dream looked beautiful moaning over him before, this brings new meaning to beauty.

The blond breaks his reverie for a moment, peering down at him and shifting the palm he’s using to support himself so that he can trace a finger up George’s neglected cock, making his own back arch. “Oh, please , Dream—”

“So impatient,” He tuts. “At least let me get used to three fingers before you start properly begging.”

George bucks up into his touch only once before there’s bruising pressure on his hips, telling him to stay down with a pitch-dark look. “Please, hurry. I’ll be good, I promise. Just, please, let me fuck you.”

The blond’s response is to withdraw both of his hands— one from George, and one from himself— and they both sigh at the loss. George’s longing, however, doesn’t stay unaddressed for long, when Dream shifts up and then lowers himself so that he can settle with George’s cock right between his ass, rubbing as a vicious tease but nowhere near taking him inside just yet.

Dream is already slick from his own work, and the feeling of him slowly gliding up and down along George’s cock— pressed flat to his stomach and desperate— is enough to make him want to believe in god. The blond, on his part, is simply enjoying the show from his new vantage point. 

“I love seeing you with your legs spread nice and open for me,” He purrs, grinding down and making George briefly forget what any of the words he’d just said mean. “But look at you now: rubbing against me like some kind of whore, so desperate to fuck me. God, you look absolutely filthy , and I love it.”

He can’t help but whine out some pathetic sound. “I’m- I’m not—”

“Oh, just look at yourself, Georgie,” One of Dream’s long fingers lowers to lightly trace shapes on the head of George’s cock. “So fucking needy. I don’t know how anyone else has ever been able to take care of you.”

“They haven’t,” He almost rushes to say it. “Not like you. God, you—”

Dream’s laugh interrupts him as he tilts his hips forward so that he can slide his own throbbing cock against George’s belly, smearing it with pearlescent precum and letting out the sweetest noise. “Oh, I know. I’m so fucking good to you, George. And, because of that,” His movements haven’t stopped, and George softly moans every single time Dream manages to brush against his head. “You’re gonna let me use you to fuck myself. You always get the better end of this equation, and I'm sick of it. It’s my turn now.”

Without even waiting for George to respond, he lifts his hips, maneuvering until he can reach between his legs and grab George’s cock to press against him. 

If Dream makes him wait any longer, he thinks he might just about lose his mind.

“Since you’re so needy, go ahead,” He commands, a chill deep enough to rival the arctic freeze in his smooth voice. “Push in. I’m tired of doing everything for you.”

George glories at the authority of his tone as the man in his lap makes him weak. “Y-yes, sir.”

It’s difficult with the ropes restricting him, ultimately turning it into a test of just how much practical muscle George has in his hips. He slowly thrusts upward, pressing against Dream until muscle gives way to a tight, velvet heat that makes him choke on his own breath. 

“Keep going. You aren’t done yet.” Dream prompts, intentionally tightening around him and, in general, not making George’s fraying self-control any better off.

Nonetheless, he listens, because he wants Dream to call him sweet names, wants to imagine the “baby” that rolls off of his tongue actually means something; and he can’t bring those half-true guilty fantasies with him here, in this barren no man’s land between lust and love. 

When he finally bottoms out, he can’t help the loud moan that escapes him. If he thought Dream’s touches could burn him before, then this could make him catch fire. The other lets his weight fall at last, pushing George’s trembling hips flush to the mattress once again. 

Dream lets out a pleased little sigh, almost on the verge of blossoming into carnal melody. “You fill me up so nice, baby,” He purrs, eyes closing for a moment of vulnerability. “Not too much, either; so perfect. You’re always fucking perfect, George.”

He glows beneath the praise, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth so that he has something to bite down on and ground himself. “Fuck, Dream, you’re— god !”

“I bet you want to touch me so fucking badly, don’t you? Are you frustrated?

He nods, too scared to use his voice in fear of letting slip something that he’ll regret. 

Dream’s first response is a cruel roll of his hips that feels almost like divine blessing to him. His second response is this: “Well, you see, I can still touch you however the hell I want.”

There is a savagery in his timbre, low and curling, that takes up a terrifying residence in his ear drums as his mind stutters to process the tightness wrapped around him. Dream starts rocking back and forth, tilting his body and pressing his thighs into George’s sides to steady himself as he grows comfortable with moving. He lets his eyes slip shut, hands coming to press against George’s navel so that he can better guide himself. The breaths he lets out slowly start to acquire pitch, but he stays at a steady, unfaltering pace. 

George, on the other hand, isn’t maintaining his sense quite as well. Lazy vibrations still fill his hips with stuttering signals, so that every time he tries to push into the mattress to feel a little less of the man he’s buried inside of, he’s only pressed further against more stimulation. He squeezes his eyes shut as his body starts to burn and his mind runs ravage with thoughts that involve far more than what he’s been given permission to indulge in. 

Dream finally starts to lift his hips, dropping down onto his cock and starting to let soft, punched moans fall from his lips. They’re honest; melodic. “You feel good, baby,” He sings, exposing his fragile carotids as his head tips back. “And you have the most whorish little blush on your face. God, if you could only see yourself. I sure hope I don’t look that debased when I’m fucking you senseless.”

There is no way Dream could have expected him to not redden further with the words, but he still flares with a lustful shame anyway, so easily falling for his twists. “I’m- You don’t- you don’t look like that.”

“Like what, George?” He asks, punctuating it with a particularly deep thrust that makes George cry out. When he doesn’t respond, Dream grabs roughly for his chin, lifting his head just slightly with the force of it. “Like what , George?”

His breathing stutters and even more heat somehow rushes to dance across his face. He still feels unbearably lewd saying stuff like this, but the hot flame of hunger racing beneath his skin begins to push him back to speaking. “Like a whore.” He murmurs, praying that Dream won’t make him repeat himself.

Thankfully, he doesn’t, but the utterance makes it easier for him to forget the aching fondness that’s been growing inside of him. Good, he can take this: he wants Dream to be mean. Maybe if he’s cruel enough, George will be able to forget the fact that he might be falling just a little bit in love with him— early stages of course, but the cliché stands. 

Dream chuckles lowly and releases his chin in favor of sliding his fingers into George’s hair so he can sweetly pull. “There we go. I love it when you’re honest. It’s- oh! ” Dream’s pace stutters and his shoulders jut up as the rest of his body collapses a bit. His confident tone completely cracks, and George can feel him tighten as he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. 

“Did I—”

“ You didn’t do anything,” Dream interrupts, breathing a bit more labored than it had been a few moments ago as he readjusts the angle of his hips to hit his prostate again. “You’re tied to the bedframe for a reason.”

He nods, the action further pulling at the strands of umber hair Dream has wrapped around golden fingers. “I’m sorry, sir.”

With the new angle and Dream experiencing newer pleasure, George begins to struggle to keep ahold of his own arousal. He feels himself throb inside of the other, precum inevitably beading from the head of his cock to slick them together just a little more, and a broken moan splinters between his teeth. “Fuck! You—” His toes curl and sparks fan in the pit of his stomach. “Dream, oh my god!”

The hand on his stomach shifts further up by his shoulder, so that when Dream leans down, he can see the embers in the yellow of his eyes. “You’re lucky, George. I don’t let many people do this.” The smirk in his voice would be evident even blind. The confidence and assurance he exudes regarding George and the privileges he’s willing to give to him almost makes him afraid. “You should thank me.”

The words sit like a lump in his throat, stuck behind the little bid of pride he somehow manages to maintain in these scenarios of theirs. 

“What? Cat got your tongue, baby? I said that you should thank me.”

George doesn’t want tenderness, not right now. He usually glows incandescent under Dream’s praise, but tonight he just wants to forget: he wants to forget all of it. “No.”

The other’s hips come to a halt, making George groan in discontent. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said,” He clarifies, daring to meet his eyes. “No.” His tone isn’t serious; he isn’t changing colors, and he knows the other can see the defiance in his eyes. 

Dream’s own spark with intent, narrowing as his face morphs into something like disdain glazed with pleased bemusement. “Baby, I’m going to give you one chance to take that back. Say ‘thank you.’”

He doubles down. “No.” Please, make me think about pain, make me think about punishment, about literally anything else besides you. 

The response is almost immediate, the grip in his hair growing harsh and causing him to cry out in pain. “So, you’re choosing tonight to be a fucking brat, huh? God, I can feel you just throbbing inside of me; you’re such a painslut, George.”

He can’t deny any of the accusations, because they’re true. They’ve already done this half a dozen times, but he still can’t understand why, for the life of him, pain turns to pleasure and fog to clarity. “What’re you going to do about it?”

Dream yanks harder, and George’s legs jerk in their binds as tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I wanted to do this tonight because I’m tired of always having to do everything. And I’m tired of going out of my way to punish you, too. You always have such pathetic stamina, so how about this: I keep riding you until I come, and you have to take it . I don’t care if you’re crying, if you’re screaming; unless you safeword, I don’t stop until I’m satisfied.”

He may have said ‘how about this,’ but it wasn’t a question. A part of him wants to melt immediately, desperate for the praise he loves, but he knows how this needs to go, for his own sake, just for tonight. “Like that’s even a punishment.”

His head is pushed back into the pillows, stringent grip still not leaving his hair as Dream raises himself up completely and then seats George back inside of him in one go. It makes something pitiful crack from the brunet’s chapped lips. “Get back to me in a little while, you fucking brat.” Dream scolds, rolling his hips in an elegant yet barbaric curve that shows off the lean layer of muscle that lies beneath his stomach. 

It turns out that Dream is as good at this as he is when he fucks him open. George’s fingers are scrabbling for open leads of rope to hold onto, his shoulders jerking every now and then when the blond moves just right, or tightens around him. This isn’t the same kind of pleasure as the one he experiences with Dream inside of him— and he knows as much, of course— but it’s blindingly bright in a different way. Rather than a violent boil of hedonism that leaves his thighs trembling, this is like steady, low electricity spreading along his skin until all of him is coated with a warm, soft hum: slow electrocution that will eventually scramble every thought he has, and that’s exactly what he needs. How he gets it doesn’t particularly matter. 

Tonight, he only needs to care about the physicality. Dream can be mean, can be awful to him; he can call him names, degrade him, pull his hair as hard as he wants; George doesn’t care. 

So long as he doesn’t have to think about his own yearning, he doesn’t fucking care. 

The way Dream is moving isn’t meant for George’s pleasure; he’s grinding his hips down, focusing on rocking back and forth, clearly perfectly content with where George is exactly inside of him. The other’s cock is leaking between them, bobbing against his stomach as he moves, occasionally smearing precum on George’s skin when he finds friction against him. Dream is tight and burning around him— a heat that does make George dizzy. The toy inside of him is good, and the sting of his hair is both sinful yet somehow divine, but none of it is quite enough .

“Is this the best you can do?” He chokes out, clearly unsteady with his words. 

Dream responds just about the way he would have expected, mockery dripping from his tongue like quicksilver. “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit, baby. I can feel you twitching inside me. Try again.”

He does try, to be fair. His lips attempt to figure out language again, and come up with something to snipe back and encourage more degradation to fall from his mouth, but his resolve is slipping almost as quickly as he’d found it. 

“I don’t know what you’re—”

His hair is pulled again, making him yelp and cutting off his own sentence. “You aren’t very good at this little bratting thing you’re trying out, George,” God, when his voice is like that— “So I suggest that you either commit, which I don’t think you can do anyway, or you just take your punishment like a good slut.”

The words are harsh— a bit harsher than he’s used to— but they make him shudder with need. He’s silent for a moment, the other not exactly helping the objectivity of his decision as he continues to move on George’s cock. It only takes one more rough tug on his hair for the choice to be made. “Dream, please—” He pleads, blown eyes meeting their match above him as his resolve cracks. “You- you feel so good. Please, let me come.”

Hands splay heavy across his chest as Dream leans down slightly, close enough that his panting can just fan against George’s lips. “Am I not enough for you to do that, you fucking brat?” Dream hisses, clenching intentionally around him. “I’m not holding you back. Come if you want, but I told you that I’m not stopping until I’m done. That’s your punishment”

George drinks him in, eyes fluttering shut with grace and lips falling open to pray. His moans are freer than they tend to be, and he’s usually wonderfully vocal already. The sound is like music, low and sonorous in his ears. He isn’t nearly as messy as he makes George; there are no tears streaming from his eyes, no ungodly noise bubbling from his strangled throat, no frantic writhing. It’s languid, and at his own pace. He’s clearly just enjoying himself, and George is only lucky enough to be allowed to witness it. 

He pulls weakly at his ties, desperate to touch, but they never give. With his limitations, and the fact Dream doesn’t seem to want to give anything to him, George eventually braces himself and thrusts up into the man on top of him. The noise it pulls from Dream is dangerous enough to be addictive.

“There we go, finally,” Dream sighs, meeting his thrusts with a fall of his hips. “You’re so used to sitting back and taking everything I could possibly give you; I was worried you’d forgotten how to do anything other than being filled.”

“N-no!” He gasps out, finally starting to feel himself growing close. “I-I like it more, but I can be good for you like this too, I promise.”

A broad palm cups his cheek, and he melts into the hold. “We’ll see. Don’t stop moving.”

He listens, craving his own end, but also desperate to see Dream lose himself like this. Obscene sound comes from between them, slick and needy. 

“Come on, George,” Dream demands. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He’s gripping his binds so tightly that he almost swears he can hear them start to creak. “It’s kind of hard when I’m, oh! , restrained like this.”

“Too bad,” Comes Dream’s verdict, although its authority is slightly undermined by the moan that immediately follows. “I need to make sure you know just how powerless you are in this situation.”

Exertion is starting to collect on George’s salted skin as his muscles quiver and he feels himself getting close. No matter how he pushes and pulls against the rope that’s dripped so beautifully over each of his joints, he’s absolutely stuck, unable to touch, to indulge, to give in to the things he wants. The strain against delicate skin aches and burns, swirling through his nervous system until the feeling can go to where he needs it. “ Please .” He whispers, eyes screwing shut while his body starts to thrum with that unique anticipation. 

“Please, what? Address me properly.” Dream snipes in response, leaning back just slightly to change his angle and wrapping his fingers lazily around his own cock, still in no apparent rush. Even though flush is gathering heavy on his face, draping him in beautiful mantling, he still seems intent on torturing George, clearly asking him to beg. 

George swallows, tears of shame beading in the corners of his eyes at long last. “Please, sir. Be- be mean to me.”

His haze of domineering pleasure slips even further and a self-satisfied smirk crests his lips, a mile wide. “I don’t know if you even deserve that.” He starts, tightening around him as he does so just so that George can mewl out some pitiful noise. “Can’t even keep up a steady pace; you’re so worthless. Why should I give you anything you want, hmm? Being mean might just be a kindness you aren’t worthy of.”

His heart rate ticks up in his chest, faltering and wobbling as he takes in his callous words. George’s tongue is tied in thick knots

Dream takes his silence as hesitancy, and slows his pace for a moment. “Color? I know you said the first night that degrading isn’t something you were sure abou—” 

“You’re right,” He interrupts, a little more of an edge in his voice than he’d anticipated. “I don’t deserve it. I- I’m just a worthless slut.”

After a moment of raised eyebrows, George watches as they fall and his lean body resumes its movements. “At least you can acknowledge how useless you are.”

All that he can do is continue to meet the other’s hips: skin to skin, lust to longing and back. There’s heat low in his stomach now, peaking and seething, and he’s helpless to abate it, only able to take what he’s fortunate enough to be given. 

Dream is nowhere near close, himself; his cock is flushed, but he isn’t moving with nearly enough urgency to suggest that he can even see the edge, let alone tip over it. He already knows that this mismatch in timing is going to be ruinous. 

“Please, I—” George draws in trembling breath, head plastered against the pillows as his spine starts to softly arch. “Oh, god.”

“Baby, you can’t even make me come, even though you’re already oh-so close.” The hand that had been thumbing at the head of his own cock quickly traces up to grab for George’s jaw, prying his lips open and sliding two fingers in. They push hard against his tongue, and he can’t help but close his mouth to take them further in. “God, that’s pathetic. Next time you come over, remind me to use your pretty little mouth, since you’re clearly so fucking eager for it.”

George moans softly around the intrusion, wrapping his tongue around the digits in the hopes of pacifying Dream. They eventually start to push deeply enough that it triggers his gag reflex, his head jerking and more tears coming to his eyes, but Dream doesn’t relent there or on his cock, forcing him to adjust. 

“There we go,” He coos, tightening around him and making George completely forget the spasms in his throat. “Finally good for something. You’re just so close aren’t you? I can feel how hard you are from me treating you like this. God, you’re filthy.”

He makes a noise that roughly equates to “Yes,” hips starting to shake as Dream fucks down onto him with the clear intent of getting him to come. The thought of spilling inside of him makes George fucking burn . 

The hand that Dream had been using to support himself finally shifts to scratch its way up George’s chest, providing just enough touch for his back to arch and white to finally coat the back of his eyelids with light when he closes them and groans out what he can of his end around Dream’s fingers. 

There’s something sickeningly thrilling about coming inside of Dream. It’s such a striking reversal of the way things usually are between them, and his nails dig harshly into the palms of his hands as he struggles to maintain his coherency in the wake of it. He is aware enough, though, to hear Dream softly moan out at the feeling, dropping until he’s flush with George’s hips and can fuck him through it. 

The fingers finally slide from his mouth, and George can openly gasp out what he’s feeling, Dream’s name falling from his lips with reverence as his hips stutter out the last of his release, even more heat slicking them together than before. 

“Dream, oh, god—” 

The man in question hasn’t slowed all that much, staring down at him with an intensity that makes something in him falter. “Feel good, baby?”

“Mm-hmm.” Is all that he can manage, the tight warmth around him starting to feel like just a bit too much as his nerves start to send slim, aching needles down delicate skin. “It’s— ah, fuck .”

“Come on,” Dream prods, tilting his head with rough hands to meet his own eyes, which are gradually starting to cloud with lust. “You’re not done yet.”

A strangled noise that he isn’t prepared for scrapes out of his throat as darts of sensation pierce through his veins. “But, I’m- it’s- I’ll be too sensitive.”

“You know how to make it stop.” Dream simply says, sincere yet abrupt, and then, just like that, it’s as though he forgets there’s a living, breathing man beneath him.

Dream has always had the uncanny ability to remain cool and collected, only letting his flawless, dominant façade slip when he’s purely chasing his own pleasure. This time, clenching tight around George’s cock, he really lets himself forget the meaning of an act. Each swirl of his hips is uninhibited, purely for his sake, and each makes George writhe beneath him as his painfully overstimulated cock grinds against the other’s prostate. His head tips back each time it’s hit, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat to the watchful quiet of this sin-laden bedroom. He looks unspeakably beautiful as his hips shake and his mouth falls slack with pleasure. Blush dusts his shoulders like bloodied fog, only growing denser where it crowns the highs of his cheeks. How can George even describe him? Dream is a little too much like his namesake: putting him into words isn’t a task that simple, mortal words are capable of.

Dream’s own beauty, however, can’t distract George from the fact he’s already starting to climb toward a second edge that he knows will be agonizing when he tumbles from it, the rawness of his nerves only speeding up the process. “P-please,” He stammers, hips twitching. “Sir, I can’t take any more.”

That snaps the blond out of his blissed-out reverie, and it's hardly a moment later that Dream leans down to wrap a hand around the fragile expanse of George’s throat, resting a not insignificant amount of his body weight there. “I’m not done yet,” He spits, clearly annoyed at George’s lackluster stamina tonight. “So, either make me come with that pretty little cock of yours, or fucking take it until I manage it myself.”

Choking is meant to be a punishment, he knows that, but he only frantically kicks at the mattress as the sweet restriction starts to fill his mind with mist. Dream’s hold isn’t total and complete like it was the last time he’d placed his hands on George’s throat, so he’s still able to scrape out words. “Wait. Too much. My neck—”

Dream understands what he’s trying to say and backs off, only the lightest of pressures left behind: just so that he can remind George who it is he’s submitting to. “You really do get off on that, don’t you? What a whore.”

He whimpers out some pathetic denial. It’s one so weak-limbed that it can hardly even stand on his tongue, but he tries anyway. 

“Don’t believe you, doll,” Dream sighs, timing it with a sweet moan that feels like poison in George’s veins. “And you couldn’t even hold out tonight, so I’m clearly right.”

He can only stammer out: “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough,” The blond replies, gaze intense where it takes him in, although it’s quickly overtaken by the fluttering of long eyelashes. “Oh, god, that’s it. You just stay right fucking there so I can use you.”

The other’s broad shoulders partially collapse, the hand not curled around George’s throat coming to support his body as he leans down enough to get friction on his own cock. George watches as his thighs spread beautifully when he slightly adjusts his position, noticing a thimbleful of freckles sprinkled over the soft flesh there. There’s a nexus of sweet agony in his hips, but he can’t help but keep his eyes pried open to watch Dream, displayed in ways he was very unused to enjoying. There is simply no way he looks nearly this beautiful when Dream takes him apart. The noises that accompany his movements don’t make this any easier. 

He feels pearls of warmth drip onto his stomach, obscene and a further sign that he needs to keep taking in the sight of Dream as he starts to lose himself. 

The bed quietly creaks on occasion— something which he’d never noticed before, so abandoned to his own highs— from the rough back-and-forth of Dream’s movements, and it serves as a strange accompaniment to his bitten-back moans and soft calls of pleasure. 

“George, you’re being so good. Just sitting back and doing what you’re told,” He stutters, clearly struggling to maintain his composure and allowing vulnerability to slip through his façade. It’s a clear sign of trust, and George doesn’t know how on earth he’s supposed to handle that acknowledgement without thinking about what else he wants to be entrusted with. “ Fuck , I’m gonna come soon.”

George’s own breathing starts to pick up again at the simple utterance and, if he thinks intensely enough, he can almost feel what Dream’s hips would be like under his hands. “Please, sir. I want to make you feel good.”

He doesn’t respond, head tipping back as his lips part and his eyebrows draw together. Dream looks effortlessly stunning, like every single twinge in his cheeks and heaving gasp is intentional, chosen just to make George’s eyes sting in the holy light they give off. His moans are like strangled church hymns, and each jerk of his hips is fit for divinity. A part of him knows this will never happen again: it’s a one-time exception, done to satisfy a rare need, and he’ll never be able to have Dream like this in the way he would really want him. But, another part of him can only imagine what that indulgence would taste like, if he had the sinful penitence to pay for it. 

He’s so enraptured with the sculpted face of the man above him, contorted in climbing pleasure, that George hardly notices that Dream is finally coming, growing impossibly tighter around him as he gasps out his desperate end and paints George’s chest with ivory, only barely paler than his own skin. “Oh, god! Fuck , George!”

His pace finally starts to stutter and slow, giving George’s own wildly overstimulated body the beginning of a reprieve. He doesn’t think his name has ever sounded so lovely. 

George’s throat is finally released, the gentle reminder of his possession fading as Dream’s body collapses on top of his, breathing hard into the crook of his shoulder. He’s a bit startled by the new weight, pressed more evenly along him, but welcomes it nonetheless, feeling the stickiness between them cool as the seconds tick by. 

“Fuck,” Dream murmurs into his skin, taking the time to finally bite softly and lay his first proper marks of the night onto George’s body. He may have been entirely in control tonight, but Dream was clearly choosing to act just a bit different from his normal persona in bed. “That was so good.”

Still hopped up on the pleasure-pain of overstimulation, George only quietly giggles, helplessly bound and unable to touch as gentle ownership is pressed into his blood. 

“Do you want to come again?” He asks, back to his considerate self now that he’s taken care of his own needs. 

George sighs out something between a laugh and a groan. “Don’t think I can this time. I’m surprised I even stayed hard enough for you to finish.”

The blond laughs warmly, hot breath brushing against his jaw as Dream pushes himself back up. His eyes have greatly softened, dominance long-snapped, and he looks down at him with fondness. “Alright, if you’re sure.” He swipes a hand down his face and shakes his head to bring himself back to full awareness. “I- I know that my language was a bit… intense. I’m sorry if—”

“Hey,” George interrupts, head tipping to the side in casualty. “I know how to stop you if I don’t like it.”

“So… you did like it?” He asks, expression questioning, but amused. 

George flushes. “I- maybe a little bit,” He mutters, biting his lip. He can’t exactly tell him that his cruelty is the easiest way for him to forget his own fondness, so this will have to do. Then again, he did admittedly enjoy some of it, so it isn’t entirely dishonest. “But not… not a lot of the time, okay?”

He nods, a soft, tender smile meant only for him gracing his lips as he comes to draw along George’s jaw. “I’ll keep it in mind for later. Ready for me to untie you?”

“Yeah,” He croaks, edging into desperate to have Dream get off of him. He’s sensitive enough that he’s on the verge of speckled tears at this point. “I felt like I was going to snap one of the legs of your bed frame.”

“You wanted to touch me that bad, huh?”

George rolls his eyes, trying to hide the affection simmering inside of him. “Oh, shut up. You are so insufferable.”

Dream raises his hips so that he can slip from George’s lap at last, causing a bolt of overstimulation to course through him and make him wince. The blond tenderly strokes his cheek to soothe the shock and that, combined with the fact it only takes him half a glance to see his own cum streaking down Dream’s inner thigh, makes him forget about any of his abused flesh. 

“You can, uh- you can get cleaned up first,” George supplies, cheeks heating. “I can wait a few more minutes.”

He settles next to him on the bed and looks down at the brunet with questions in his eyes. “George, I can deal with being sticky. Let me get your arms free, at least.”

“No, no, I insist. I’ll wait.” George doesn’t think he’ll be able to deal for very long with thoughts of his own peek at what it would be like to have Dream, and he’ll let the joints of his shoulders complain for a handful of minutes more if it means he can avoid it. 

Dream just shrugs in resignation, groaning as he stands and stretches the tension from his body. “Fuck, I haven’t done that in a while. My thighs are going to hurt in the morning.”

He has no idea what to say to that, completely unable to take on the teasing confidence that Dream always responds with every time George voices a similar complaint, so he just quietly chuckles. With that, he watches Dream’s bare body retreat into the bathroom across the hallway, directly in view of the bed, and disappear behind the threshold. He leaves the door open, though, and he can hear him humming under his breath as tap water runs. It seems unbelievably intimate, and George can’t help but feel like he’s intruding, despite the fact that the two of them had done far more than eavesdrop on the other cleaning himself up. There’s a sacredness to this after and, in the wake of being unable to attend to the acts himself, he feels like beholding it is a violation of some unspoken covenant. 

By the time Dream comes back, he’s wiped any remnants of the past hour from his body, and folds himself up neatly on the bed so that he can do the same for George. His hair is still messy, but he’s clearly washed his face, and his freckles seem to glow against newly-clean skin. George does his best to covertly study his handsome face as he focuses on reversing the knots he’d created not that long ago. When he concentrates, his pupils expand just slightly, the ring of hazel around them growing in tandem as they edge into the pure gold of the rest of his irises; he tugs the left corner of his mouth in just slightly when he’s figuring out a trickier tie; his eyebrows quirk upward when George can feel more slack introduced into the line holding him. He thanks whatever god of small things has blessed him with this vision, then immediately curses them when Dream’s gaze flicks his way briefly, catching him red-handed. 

George’s eyes dart away and, for several long moments of silence, he fears that Dream will say something: whether a taunt or a sincere question would be worse isn’t an ask he can answer at the moment. Thankfully, while he studies the slight dimples in the drywall of Dream’s bedroom ceiling, the other decides not to press, and resumes his work in quiet, eventually moving down to free his legs before standing back, triumphant, with loops of crimson rope in his arms. 

“There you go,” He prods, tracing a light hand up one of George’s legs. “Better?”

He just nods, sitting up and immediately reaching in between his thighs to address the fact that the torturous little toy is still inside of him. “Could I have a towel?”

“Oh, I was going to—”

“No, I’ve got it,” He interrupts, wincing as he pulls the slim blue thing from his own body. “I’m not as exhausted as I usually am.”

Dream stammers for a moment as he works out what to say, but he eventually settles on nothing at all as he hands him a damp washcloth and sits down just to his left. “Hey, um, thanks for doing this,” He says, a bit bashful. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not what we agreed to when we started this whole thing out, and this isn’t ever going to be regular, but I just- I don’t know. Felt like I needed it, I guess. I don’t usually do this with anyone in these casual situations.”

There’s a frankly remarkable amount of evidence that Dream had left across his chest when he’d come, and he’s in the middle of wiping it off when he processes the words of the man responsible. ‘Casual’ hurts just a bit, even though he knows it shouldn’t. “You don’t need to apologize. I mean, I’m not complaining,” He japes, knocking Dream softly with his elbow. “When we started out, I asked you to use me how you need, and if that’s how you need me, then I’m happy to do that.”

“Alright,” Dream responds, confidence refilling his voice until it sounds like it’s meant to again. “I still think you’re much prettier when you take me.”

They’re just words. He isn’t saying that in the really sincere way; he just likes how I look when I’m fucked-out. “Definitely much more fun.”

“Fucking brat,” Dream immediately jabs, but there’s humor beneath it. “I should be meaner to you more often.”

He blushes at that, unable to summon a reply that’s witty enough to hide the desire inside of him. 

Dream shifts, crawling across the mattress until he can land heavily, a muffled oof leaving his mouth as he grabs at George’s waist to tug him backward. He’s startled by it, landing on his back a little too early so that when he turns to look at the man responsible, he’s greeted by his chest instead. “You could’ve just asked me, you know.”

“What was it you said, again?” He asks, tone lilting with mischief and ineffable fondness. “ Definitely much more fun .”

George sighs, shaking his head, but drags himself up so that he’s finally even with the other’s face. “Okay, I deserved that one.”

The object of his unrequited affections doesn’t waste his time, immediately rolling George flat onto his back and dipping down, lips gentle as they begin to trace his carotid. “ Oh! ” He gasps, unable to control the automatic reaction, even if he hates how weak it makes him feel. “You- you don’t have to. I’m not even out of sorts this time.” Please, I can’t weather it tonight. It’s starting to hurt . 

Dream just hums, palms coming to brace his waist as he works down completely undamaged skin. He doesn’t litter it with marks, like he normally does during, but just presses adoration into the spaces just above where his heart thrums a little too fast. “I just want to this time.”

It’s saccharine and syrupy, glowing fatigue suspended in amber. George lets his eyes fall shut— an easy choice as he bathes in afterglow— and tries to sink back into the mattress. Maybe if he focuses hard enough, he can disappear from the bed without having to fall asleep: float to another place where he doesn’t have to keep his pulse under control as Dream gently presses trails of soft kisses along his collarbones like he’s worshipping some forgotten deity. George is reduced to biting his lip as he distracts himself from the traitorous tide of emotion lapping at the shoreline of his lungs. 

“W-why do you do this?” He asks, broaching the comfortable silence which envelopes the both of them, confining them to a small world of their own..

Dream looks up from his ministrations, tilting his head delicately and letting his eyebrows just slightly scrunch together. He almost reminds him of a lost dog. “Do you not like it? I can stop.”

He blinks at him, suddenly painfully aware of just how close he is. He has to take a moment to swallow. “No, I- I mean, I definitely do; it’s nice. I just…”

“Don’t get it?” The blond softly interrupts, picking up the words where he’d trailed off. He waits for George to nod before continuing. “Well, there isn’t, like, a specific reason. You are very pretty, to be fair, but I guess it just feels right. I’m an affectionate kind of person, and it seems wrong to me to put you through what I do without some kind of sweetness after. I just- I like doing this. Is that okay?” He sounds almost timid when he finishes, clearly on the precipice of launching into an insecure ramble. It makes George’s ribs splinter. 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He has to force it out, because the reality is: it’s far sweeter than he can handle. His hand, obeying his heart rather than his mind, comes to tangle in Dream’s hair and gently urges him to return to his place on George’s decolletage. He complies with absolutely no resistance.

His reasoning makes sense, of course. He’s just being a good partner: he usually puts George through hell, so of course tenderness is warranted after the fact. He’s kind, he’s patient, he’s gentle (except when George doesn’t want him to be); this is all just part of the elaborate net they’ve tied around their joined hands, like some harbinger of an impending union not fit for the sort of relationship they have. Dream is being everything he’s expecting him to be: nothing more, and nothing less. He’s certain he’s been like this with every single person who’s ever walked through his bedroom door, and George is latching onto absolutely nothing for absolutely no reason. God, he’s such a fool.

A hummingbird has taken up residence inside of him, wings fluttering and beating against his ribcage in a desperate bid to escape. Its needle-like beak sips the lifeblood from George’s heart, and he can feel himself draining away, rotting as he’s consumed. Nectar and ambrosia turn rancid in tandem until he can almost taste it on his tongue like a bitter bile. The gentle hands that caress him start to feel like they’re strangling him instead. 

“Hey, I, uh—” George starts, hating the fact he’s having such a difficult time negotiating with his own tongue. “I have something really early tomorrow, and I kind of want to shower and change my clothes, so I’m gonna head home, actually.”

Dream props himself up, haloed head leaving George’s chest and taking half of his heat with it. “Oh, alright.” There’s a trace of something in his voice— regret, melancholy, disappointment, he can’t be sure— that only makes George’s ribs grow closer to shattering. 

He extracts himself from Dream’s hold, which gives way easily, so that he can slip from the bed and start to search for his clothes. 

“Are you sure?” The blond calls from behind him in a voice that he could almost call timid. “I mean, I’d be happy to get up early and drive you tomorrow, or—”

“That’s alright,” George softly interrupts, focusing on remembering how to work a belt. “Really. It’ll just be easier if I wake up in my own bed tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Is what comes next, small and uncharacteristically unsteady, but Dream recovers quickly enough that it makes George doubtful that he’d even heard anything at all. “Well, that makes sense.”

He’s quickly checking himself over in Dream’s mirror, smoothing out the worst of his sex-mussed hair and straightening his collar to hide the starkest of his carnal possession from the normal world. “Sorry. I’ll stay next time, okay? Promise.”

Dream wheezes out a laugh that’s almost a bit grating. “You’re the one missing out here, Georgie. My bed is so much warmer than yours could ever be.”

All he can summon is an overly dramatic roll of his eyes, shaking his head with fondness because, in a roundabout way, Dream is right. He does love being in the other’s bed, but the heat he provides is only a tangential benefit. “Well, I guess I- uh, guess I’ll go.”

Dream is beautiful where he sits, dark silk sheets pooled low around the dips of his hips which are a shock of ivory in comparison. Flush still adorns him like he’s draped in a bolt of rose-hued fabric. His hair is messy from where he had run his own fingers through it, and a portion of it is pressed completely flat from where he’s rested against George’s chest. Despite that, despite the fact he looks exhausted (despite the fact he can almost sense a soft sort of resignation from him), he’s still beautiful. He’s loath to leave, but he knows that staying, this time, will only make that gnawing beast inside of him more ravenous. 

“Okay.” Dream finally responds and, for a few heavy moments, it seems like he wants to say something more. His face turns into a barely readable game board, calculations of some kind playing out in his head (what kind, George can’t be sure) until he clearly decides to not take a turn this round. 

George himself hesitates, fighting every single desperate part of him with every bit of fraying self-control that he has left. “I’m free on Friday,” He offers, words only for Dream and his keen ears. “Could I come over? Please?”

The blond just nods. There’s no snipe about his neediness, no simmering slip of the tongue that makes George want to combust; there’s only the bobbing of a head. But, he thinks it’s response enough, so he— at last— steps through the bedroom door. 

He has to battle the threads of sinew which tether him to this room, severing them too early so that he can feel the agony when they snap. This is for the best. You know this is for the best. Get over yourself, George . 

Socked feet over hardwood; scuffed baseboards from shoes accidentally left on; clumps of dust in the corners, beyond the reach of a clunky vacuum cleaner. Everything here should be like this. It should be simple and straightforward. He’s here to satisfy a need, and Dream has asked the same of him with clear rules in place. By all measures, this should be the easiest sex he’s ever had: no metaphorical strings attached. Instead, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so much vicious push and pull in his own chest. 

They had chemistry— that much was clear— and it was good . Things have never fallen into place more quickly with any hookup or, hell, any significant other. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this? Why does he have to ruin it with embarrassing, cloying emotion? Goddammit . 

Once George tumbles back into the cold of the street, he blinks fast to process the violent temperature change. It’s always worse in the heart of downtown, the sheer building faces funneling the wind from the water until it forms brutal blades. He goes about adjusting his scarf and collars until he feels ready to move again.

As he turns to begin his trek, he swears he sees a silhouette in his periphery, peering down from Dream’s window. It’s highlighted by the dim glow of lampshades that George knows. 

When he turns to wave, there isn’t anything there.

Notes:

People were asking for switch Dream, which is just NEVER gonna happen lol, but I will give in and at least give you sub top George. Shoutout to regular twitter commenter Zuzanna, who is always very sweet, and I decided to cater to her just this once because she mentioned I write the opposite dynamic of the one she’s used to and she STILL likes this story, so you can indirectly thank her for this chapter haha.

Also shoutout to spicymarshmallow who literally wrote me, and I quote: “but maybe dream will even let george fuck him once by the end of the story just for fun...that one is less of a theory and more of a hopeful wish” while I was literally in the middle of typing out this chapter. Please dm me once you’re done reading so I can laugh at you (I say this with fondness lmaooo).

Come follow me on twitter for updates, general bullshit, and eventually art, or add me on discord if you want to chat (ess#9291)!

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Chapter 9: Occam

Summary:

"One plays at being immortal and, after a few weeks, they don't even know whether or not they can hang on 'til the next day." -Albert Camus, La Chute

Notes:

I AM BACK BABEY!! Sorry for the long delay, but I've been dealing with a lot of shit in my personal life, and writing just wasn't something I could do for the time being. Hopefully, we're back on track again :)

Once again, something a bit… different this chapter. The Down Bad Fellows are having fun with all these changes in pace. Enjoy :)

As always: don't repost, don't share to CCs, and if their boundaries ever change, this will be taken down.

A huge thank you to my little team of beta readers (all of whom can be found on my carrd!):
-snap
-blackberry/dnf_fics
-bri
-sun/xxervs

George has been in the blond’s flat for what probably amounts to a little more than an hour at this point. A thin sheen of sweat clings to his body, sticking now-tacky sheets to his back when he arches, and he raggedly breathes around a lump in his throat while Dream and his cock split him open with the usual overwhelming expertise. Rope has sweetly sunk, blade-like and venomous, into all the most delicate patches of his skin and it’s rubbing him the color of tart cherry-stained lips. Each chafe sends flickering pulses down the branching trails of his nerves until they wind up deep in the pit of his stomach and settle, building sensation that will eventually be the death of him. 

“So lovely, baby,” Dream murmurs above him, possession lilting heavy in his voice and heavier in his eyes. “You take me so fucking well, like you were just made for this and nothing else.”

He flushes at the praise that also somehow feels degrading, eyes slipping shut as he desperately presses his cheek into the pillows in a bid to keep his thoughts focused on his body instead of his heart. The deep bite and impact marks speckling everywhere from his shoulders to his knees ache loudly in the background of his senses.

Dream is panting softly, his pace at the moment fast enough to warrant being out of breath. George is doing the opposite of that, and his chest practically heaves with sensation, each shuddering inhale matched by an equally as forceful exhale that he almost swears he could see, as though it were chilled by the frost they hide from outside. But even his gasping swells of air aren’t enough to abate the lightheadedness that’s just on the verge of overtaking him, all-encompassing in its intensity and its brutal flare deep in his hips. Savage pleasure courses through him, battering the walls of each and every one of his veins until he feels like he’s witnessing the violence of Creation. 

Dream suddenly digs one of his thumbs into a bruise he’d carved into George’s ribs some time ago, making its host arch his back and let out a strangled scream. “You’re being quiet, Georgie,” His voice is edging into deeper than usual, slipping low enough that it makes George’s toes curl and his spine grow overtaken with shivers. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t make me punish you again.”

His nails dig harshly enough into his palms that George is almost certain he’s on the verge of drawing blood. “I’m- I’m so sorry, sir. Please, I—” He’s cut off by his own desperate sharps of pleasure. 

“I’ve bruised you up so pretty tonight,” Dream punctuates his clause, like he so often does when they’re like this, with a sharp thrust right where it fucking burns . “How many more are you gonna make me give you, hmm?”

George gasps out another apology, tears freely flowing down the apples of his cheeks, blooming with arousal and saline. “I- I won’t. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“But how can I— fuck — how can I be sure?” His face is starting to take on the lightest kiss of blush, pleasure clearly beginning to work its way through his blood as he drives into the helpless man beneath him with every degree of possession he could summon. 

Plastering his head to the sheets and squeezing his eyes shut in a needy bid for composure, unable to look at Dream for a moment more when he looks like that , an idea enters George’s mind. “Please, sir: choke me. That way I- oh! ” He feels wet heat leak onto his stomach, electric euphoria ebbing in his hips. “I know who I belong to; who- who owns me.”

---

He isn’t sure what it is. There’s been a tick in the back of his mind for days now, unable to be relieved and desperately demanding of his attention, and he’s just about had enough of it. 

In his bones, he knows, of course, that it’s about Dream. The man— and the way George feels about him— has been filling up every ounce of his subconscious bandwidth for two weeks now, but he doesn’t know why he still lingers. No amount of rationality, no amount of logic, no amount of frustrated late night reflection has managed to push overwhelming sentiment from his mind. It doesn’t matter what he does: it never goes away. He never goes away. 

It’s why he avoids his texts for two days. He knows, both in hindsight and during the act, that doing that is probably not the best move, but he does it anyway (against all better judgement— or perhaps it would be safer to call it worse judgement, because following that path will only lead him to unneeded vulnerability). For forty-eight hours, Dream’s scheduling questions and stupid quips and sincere questions about if he was okay go completely ignored on the surface. 

George reads all of them; that goes without saying. Every single time his phone buzzes with something other than a work email, or incessant messages from friends, or another asinine Twitter notification, he scrambles for it, thinking: maybe this time I’ll work up the courage to respond— maybe this time! 

It took him two entire days until he could bear to put an index finger and thumb to digital keyboard. 

 

 

Monday, 4:38 PM: hey did you know what time you wanted to come over on friday?

Monday, 4:42 PM: dw if you haven’t thought about it yet tho. just wanted to check :)

---

Tuesday, 7:28 AM: fuck hope i’m not waking you up but LOOK AT MY CAT

Tuesday, 7:28 AM: [Dream] sent 1 attachment

Tuesday, 7:29 AM: how am i supposed to leave my house when she does this

Tuesday, 7:29 AM: george i’m only a man and i’m one weak to small cats

---

Tuesday, 6:42 PM: i’ve bought more bagels

Tuesday, 6:42 PM: it was an impulse buy i shouldn’t have purchased them

Tuesday, 6:43 PM: i don’t even usually eat breakfast wtf am i going to do with a baker’s dozen of bagels??

Tuesday, 6:43 PM: i only wanted six but they were having a sale and the cashier was so fucking nice UGH

---

Tuesday, 11:43 PM: what’ve you been up to this week? i’m guessing pretty busy at wok

Tuesday, 11:43 PM: *work

Tuesday, 11:43 PM: something tells me I should probably sleep. i hope you’re sleeping well too george

---

Wednesday, 2:32 AM: i don’t want to be an asshole but are you like… okay? you usually don’t go so long without responding

Wednesday, 2:38 AM: i mean ik what we did last weekend was a little bit out of the ordinary but if you didn’t like it just like… please tell me? i don’t wanna accidentally upset you or anything like that 

Wednesday, 2:40 AM: did i do something wrong? i know that you’re new to all of this but you’ve been so good about telling me everything so ig i let myself get a little too lax with checking and stuff. fuck i slipped up you were so quiet and left early and stuff i should’ve noticed before that

Wednesday, 2:46 AM: okay i’m probably just being really stupid. sorry if any of this woke you up or something. 

Wednesday, 2:46 AM: i’m probably just a little tired lol you can ignore these in the morning

Wednesday, 2:48 AM: goodnight georgie

When he wakes up Wednesday morning to that , he has no choice but to spend the day overthinking eight thousand separate responses that he could send back. George knows, at the end of it all, that what he’s doing to Dream is cruel, and he doesn’t deserve it. That man— that infuriating, wonderful, stunningly beautiful man— doesn’t deserve to suffer because George can’t get his shit together and keep his attachments straight.

 

Wednesday, 7:28 PM: sorry i’ve just been really busy with this one project at work and i usually just pass out by the time i get home and eat dinner

Wednesday, 7:30 PM: i didn’t mean to make you upset or anything

Wednesday, 7:30 PM: you didn’t do anything wrong, and i would’ve told you if you did. i think you’re right: you were just tired lol. i liked last weekend i promise

Wednesday, 7:43 PM: i can come over at like 6 on friday? if that works?

George drops his phone onto his chest, where it thuds softly against the smooth bone of his sternum, as he lays on his couch and tries to sort himself out. He can feel the pigment pooling beneath his eyes more strongly tonight than usual, and fatigue drags at his limbs until he feels ready to sink straight through the mantle of the earth to bathe in magma and liquid nickel. Honestly, that would be preferable to basking in this perpetual indecision which consumes him these days. 

Dream doesn’t respond. He checks constantly for hours, pushing the time when he inevitably falls asleep once, then twice, then a third time: just for good measure. It’s something like two o’clock in the morning again, when he had last texted the night— or, morning— before he hears anything. 

 

Thursday, 2:07 AM: yeah sure 6 works

Thursday, 2:07 AM: guess i’ll see you then?

There is nothing else: no mention of his insecurities last night, or of the fact George hadn’t answered for so long. It’s partially reassuring, partially terrifying. Had he fucked up? God, he really hopes he didn’t. He needs to sort himself out before things turn southward enough that his skin starts to boil in the tropics of emotional tumult. 

 

Thursday, 2:11 AM: alright- see you then :)

The stupid emoticon is a last minute addition that he spends most of the four minutes in response delay delting and retyping in a desperate bid to decide whether it was appropriate or not. Is it too casual? No, Dream has used them before— he uses them liberally, if he’s being honest. Is it weird after the awkwardness they both seemed dead set on forgetting? Most certainly. Is it weird enough to warrant deletion? That’s the crucial question.

Eventually, he arrives on a negative response, sending it off in the hope of restoring the casual ease they had shared up until George’s flight from his flat last week. That had been stupid. He’s being stupid. Jesus Christ, he’s on the verge of ruining this entire thing, isn’t he?

“Fuck, I need to get myself together,” He mutters into the darkness of his bedroom, the faint whining hum of his radiator filling the blank syllables in between each word. “Come on, George, you’re being ridiculous.”

The silence of his empty flat answers him with the quiet cacophony of weeknight traffic and partygoers walking home in the near distance. Voices lilt from the street, all raucous laughter and exuberance. He was lucky to have grown up in London: every single friend he’d ever had who moved here from the quieter suburbs or towns of the world had taken months to fully adjust to the constant white noise of the city at night, haunting their sleep until not even the best concealer could offer reprieve for their exhausted eyes. It’s only a time-worn soundtrack to George’s insomniac nights, now, keeping him company as his mind turns at a thousand revolutions per second. 

It would be so much easier if he could just think of Dream in terms of the things he did to him. If only he could lay here, folded in the dark bliss of his curtains, and trail too-small hands down his body until he’s dangerously longing; if only that were the only way he thought of him. He does that too, of course, but he’d much prefer if his brain resides below his waist for this matter in particular, just this once. Everything would be so much easier if it was carnal and nothing else. George is usually so good at that separation. 

Fuck’s sake.

---

“Oh, yeah?” Dream drawls, tongue dripping with mockery and bitter taunt. “Is that what you want, baby? Want me to wrap my hands around your pretty little throat and squeeze until you’re sitting in the stars, hmm?”

George lets out some needy whine at the proposition and its imagery. Heat flares in his hips and creeps up his spine until it can settle, traitorous and brutal, in his brainstem. “Yes, please, sir. I need you to remind me.”

Dream comes to a stop fully sheathed inside of him, grinding cruelly against the backs of his thighs in a way that makes the steadfast control he’s managed to hold onto in his hips begin to fray. “You need me to remind you?” Dream sounds dangerous enough to light him on fire. “You’re telling me that you’re in danger of forgetting, George?” 

He shivers at the usage of his name, unadorned with a nickname or lust, and feels honeyed fear settle between his lungs. “I- I didn’t mean it like that, I—”

“How did you mean it, then?” He spits, and the harshness feels holy. “Why the fuck do you need reminding? You’re lying here, taking my cock while you’re tied up in my ropes on my bed with the marks from my crop and my hands and my mouth absolutely covering you like the slut you are, and you need to be reminded about who fucking owns you, George?”

How Dream manages to turn him on more and more every single time he comes over to his flat is a mystery to him. What exactly is the limit to that feeling? He isn’t sure he’s even physically equipped to find that out. “I’m sorry, sir, I really didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”

The blond still hasn’t moved, torturing him with the press of his cock inside of him: so fucking close to exactly what he needs, yet denying him at every turn. George tries to squeeze around him, hoping that it will give him even a whisper more of pleasure, but a harsh and sudden slap across his thigh makes him stop. “You expect me to believe that when you’re trying to get me further inside you without permission like that? I don’t think you’re sorry.”

Tears start to bead in his eyes as he realizes just how desperate he is, even though they aren’t that far into the night. “Please, please. I’m so sorry! I promise, I promise I am. I just need you so badly. You make me feel so good and I’m just- I’m too much of a whore to help myself.”

A broad palm comes to rest softly on his salt-stained cheek, tender despite the roughness which accompanies it. Fuck. Just focus on everything else, George. Come on, that should be easy. “God, you really fucking are. Maybe you do need reminding, after all.”

“Yes! Yes, please, sir!”

“Shut up,” He hisses, three fingers sliding into George’s mouth and pressing hard against his tongue. “You only get to ask anything of me when you’re good, and you certainly haven’t been.”

Sparks skitter deep in the pit of his stomach at the insinuation, and he shamefully takes Dream’s fingers deeper into his mouth and sucks softly on them, wishing they were the other’s cock instead. He lets his eyes slide shut, freeing more rolling drops of salt, and does his best to moan sweetly around the intrusion. George is careful not to let his teeth drag against the peaks of Dream’s knuckles, because he knows that will only prolong whatever it is that their owner has in mind for him. 

As he languidly thrusts his fingers in and out of George’s pliant mouth, Dream takes in a few slow breaths before speaking, timbre much mellower than it had been only a handful of moments earlier. “Are you still green, honey? I know you want me to be like this, but you’re still being so good for- ow! ” 

George gets his attention the only way he can, by lightly biting his fingers so that they’re snatched out and he can speak again. “I’m green. Back in, please. Like it.” He opens his mouth again, lewd when he makes eye contact with Dream, and lets his tongue poke out invitingly. 

The blond has to swallow. “Fucking hell,” He mutters, blinking at the sight before abiding by his request, slipping them past the heat of his lips once again and pushing far back enough to make him gag. “How can I say no when you ask all pretty like that? God.”

He moans now that his tongue is occupied again, swirling around Dream’s knuckles and rubbing against the pads of his fingers. George likes their presence: heavy and grounding as he desperately tries to ignore his cock twitching against his stomach, neglected and all too needy. 

Dream rolls his hips once, twice, shallowly fucking into him and causing sound to leak from the mouth wrapped around his fingers. Then, just as unkind as always, his movements stop again. “You know, maybe I will take your breath away from you. You cry when I choke you, baby, and you look so fucking gorgeous like that.”

He whimpers out a pathetic mewl, a muffled please immediately pressed back into his throat by sharp fingers. George wants it so badly that it burns, and he can’t help it when muscle pulses deep inside of him, the possibility of sweet asphyxiation and the euphoria it will bring almost strong enough to make constellations dance behind the shut canvases of his eyelids. 

The hand not preoccupied with thrusting past his lips releases the bruising grip it has on George’s hip, and traces upward over trails of glorious abuse before Dream’s short nails can just barely glance over his Adam’s apple. It’s growing difficult to control his breathing. “Then again, knowing just how filthy you are, you’d probably see it as a reward, wouldn’t you? I still remember that night when I collared you like my little pet: you came so fast once I started choking you,” 

Please, sir, he thinks, willing Dream to hear him through some cosmic force he doesn’t even know exists. I want it so fucking badly. 

I want you so fucking badly. 

Somehow, he hears him, because the thumb rubbing soft, torturous circles against his voice box slides back, back, back until it’s lightly pressing— only just barely, really— on his right carotid. It’s joined only a moment later by the spread of his other fingers as they begin to dig into its leftward twin. He hasn’t even started squeezing yet, but George’s breath seizes just so slightly nonetheless. 

“Are you ready, doll?” Dream asks, violently stirring the currents of arousal that swirl in his core. He slides spit-slick fingers from George so that he can gasp beneath him. “Ready for me to remind you who you belong to?”

George’s mouth is still working around the fact that it no longer has anything in it, and it takes him a moment to relearn that his tongue is meant for words. “Oh, please! Please, please, sir. Make it so that I never forget: fuck me ‘til I’m stupid just for you.” 

A hiss slips through Dream’s defenses at the coarse pleas, and it’s hardly a second later that he starts to squeeze. 

---

It goes like it always does, without even a hitch from the transit authority. George makes the journey further downtown, crawling north beneath the world until he can re-emerge just after the sun has sunk behind even the lowest buildings of the West Side and plunged the city into twilight: artificial and perpetual. 

Floating prisms of electric light dance both on and high above the streets, painting salted pavement with geometric movement. It’s a calm night, shuddering in the aftershocks of an ice storm that had awoken the metropolitan sprawl that morning, slicking asphalt and concrete in salt-rotted freeze. In other words, it’s fairly miserable. 

George trudges through the half-frozen slush left behind by the constantly racing snow ploughs, boots accumulating more and more ice until his feet begin to feel properly cold. He might be feeling unbearably anxious as he approaches Dream’s flat, desperately hoping that his bizarre transgressions of the past week have been forgotten, but he craves getting out of these damp, frozen conditions just a bit more. 

When he reaches the gate to Dream’s building, wrought iron creeping with patina, he can’t help but rest his forehead against one of the bars and close his eyes, taking several steadying breaths as his index finger hovers over his call button. 

“Alright, this is fine. You’ll be fine. Just go along with everything just like usual,” He murmurs to himself, pressing hard enough into the metal in order to put a slight divot into his skin for a moment. “You’ve cleared it up. It’s fine.”

Finally taking courage, George presses on the button— worn down to white plastic in the center from decades of use— and speaks into the callbox. “Hey, it’s me.”

The speaker crackles feedback when the tip of his finger relents in its pressure and, after that, he’s met with silence as he waits for Dream. 

Dream: that god awful man who has managed to paint every single one of his synapses with vicious, bittersweet longing. 

He digs the toes of his boots into the built-up icy sludge, kicking at the few crystals that have managed to form despite the salt from the road so he can grind them to dust. His chest feels heavy while he waits, ribs close to splintering but simultaneously at risk of dropping through to his stomach. It’s just a bit disorienting but, then again, so are most things when it comes to Dream. 

Finally, the man in question pops his head out from the front door, waving awkwardly. “Hey, it’s, uh- the gate’s open, by the way. I buzzed you in so you could get off the street,” He scratches at the back of his neck, bathing in strange hesitancy. “I realize now I probably should have told you, huh? That was kind of stupid.”

George melts immediately at the strained quirk of his lips, the stiffness from earlier leaving his shoulders as he takes him in and opens the gate. “It’s alright. I’ve only been out here for a couple of minutes anyway. How’re you doing?”

The front door is opened for him— Dream, always the gentleman— but he doesn’t guide him with gentle nudges to his waist like he had in times past. 

Yeah, okay, he deserves that. 

“I’m doing alright!” He responds, deceivingly chipper as the stairs creak beneath their combined weight. “Haven’t been sleeping all that well the past couple of days, but I’m fine other than that. You must be tired after your rough week, right? Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?” There’s sincerity there, so clear that it might as well be surrounded by the flickering lights of a tarmac. 

George feels his face heat with shame, and not the variety that makes arousal begin to form in his hips: this is just pure, and simple, shame. “I am tired, yeah, but I need this. I- I need someone to take care of me, if that’s okay?”

A hand finally slides around his waist, dipping low enough to just barely scrape his hip and pull him closer as they mount the final flight of stairs together. “That’s more than okay, baby. I love taking care of you. As long as you feel alright, I want to make you fall to pieces: you look so good like that.”

The shame begins to trickle into the desire he can never shake with Dream. “I feel alright. Please…”

“So desperate and we’re not even in the door yet.” He laughs softly to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. The sight is painful in a few unique ways. “I think I’ll draw out having my way with you tonight. You need to remember who’s in the place to make demands here.”

When George passes through his threshold, he’s met with the faint scent of wine and herbs, Dream’s dinner still lingering in the heated air. The rest of it is like it always is: light patches of clutter take refuge on bookshelves and the corners of side tables, a flash of a dappled tail is seen before it vanishes beneath the couch, and dishes dry on the counter, damp porcelain gleaming in the low light. George likes it here, he realizes; not even because his own desperation and lascivious cries are stamped into its walls, but because it just feels… nice. It’s not eloquent, but it’s the closest he can get to putting the strange feeling knocking around inside his chest into words. 

The door is shut behind him, Dream sliding the locks into their proper positions with soft clicks. “Did you have dinner before you—”

“Yeah, I did. Can we- can we please start? Sir?” George interrupts, biting his lip subconsciously and staring up at him through dark eyelashes. The less talking they do, the less likely he is to say something he’ll later regret. The sex, he can do. He can do that.

Dream blinks at him for a moment, gold flashing in and out of existence like aureate Morse. “God, you really are desperate tonight, aren’t you?” It takes him another handful of breaths to start to switch over into the man George craves, cool steel plating the hallows of his cheeks and setting his jaw oh-so beautifully. As his own squares, he brings up a hand to roughly grab George’s, pulling him tantalizingly close and pressing his face upward to an almost uncomfortable angle with a thumb. His breath stutters, and Dream smirks. “So fucking filthy. Want me to tie you up, baby? Stamp you with pretty bruises so the whole world knows who you belong to? Who you serve?”

He swallows thickly, the sudden change in demeanor giving him furious whiplash. “Y-yes, please.”

“Yes, please, who ?” Dream pushes, nails just starting to dig into George’s chin where he grips him. If he doesn’t answer soon, he knows that they’ll leave marks. 

“Yes, please, sir.” He immediately replies, almost bowling over the words in his rush to get them past softly parted lips. 

Dream hums in contemplation, roughly tilting his face to the side in a display of possession. This way and that: George is just for his viewing pleasure. “Are you going to be good for me tonight, or are you going to act out and disobey me like last week?” His voice feels like pitch against his eardrums: sticky and just on the verge of catching flame. “Because I don’t want to tolerate your misbehaving.”

He has a choice to make: right here, right now. He can fall in line, lay beneath Dream while he’s torn to exquisite pieces by his painfully precise hands; or, he can fight and claw the only way he can, with his words. He can let himself be owned, or he can assert himself for punishment’s sake. A part of George desperately craves that brutality because he knows that will make things easier, but he doesn’t like the struggle. There’s too much of him that yearns and longs for sweet praises and sweeter rewards. 

“I’ll be good for you, sir,” He makes his decision. “I want to be good.”

Dream softly tuts, grip slackening around his jaw. “Oh, sweet thing... I’m so glad to see you’ve changed your mind,” Honey drips from his mouth, sickeningly sweet and perfectly able to drown. “I don’t want to have to be unnecessarily cruel to you so that you listen. That can be fun, of course, but I love seeing you all pliant for me.”

George lets his eyelids slide shut as they stand in the unbearable emptiness of his entryway. “I can do that, just for you.”

“But, Georgie, remember:” He growls, earthy possession and foreboding in his drawl. “There will be consequences if you don’t keep your promise. Do you understand?”

There’s a snake curling around his spinal cord, and it intends to eat him alive. “I understand, sir.”

“Good boy,” Dream finally decides, releasing his face and nearly making George stumble at the sudden shift of weight. “Bedroom. Strip. I will not be telling you twice.”

The taller man slides out of reach, leaving George reeling as he scrambles after him like a lost puppy. Hardly three minutes ago, he had been standing outside of his front gate, stomach roiling with anxiety like it had that very first night, and now he was chasing pleasure with reckless abandon (emphasis on just slightly reckless). Dream could flick some kind of switch inside of him with almost no effort, and it was practically infuriating just how easily he melted for him. 

As he trails in the other’s wake, George briefly thinks about creeping up behind him, like the other was so fond of doing, and wrapping his arms around a neat waist. Oh, he could slide his hands across the fabric of his shirt and feel the slight divots of muscle just beneath it. He could even press them flush together, slip his fingers beneath the hem, feel him as he trembled and—

Deep breaths, George. Deep breaths. Focus.

“You know,” Dream lilts, back still turned to him and depriving him of the sights of his face. “I actually don’t think that your behavior last time should go unpunished, baby.”

George’s oxygen immediately dies in his throat as the words spread from a quicksilver tongue. His voice box drops into his stomach. “I- I told you that I’ll be good tonight.”

He sucks his teeth, sighing with a deep tone of resignation that even made his shoulders slump as he did so. “You can be good tonight, and you won’t get any more punishment, but I can’t let your brattiness last time go completely unaddressed, now can I? I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I just let it go,” Dream explains, still refusing to turn around. “So, I expect to see you completely bare and waiting for me by the time that I finish getting what I need here so that I can help you remember your place in this bedroom, George.”

Words fail him, the sheer timbre of Dream’s voice making him shiver, and he’s frantically pulling at his jumper hardly a moment later, stuttering out curses as it gets caught somewhere, somehow: some limb just slightly out of line. 

“Better hurry up. I’m almost done deciding just how much rope I need tonight. Gonna tie you down tight, make it so that you can’t even squirm this time. I’ll take my time taking you apart, baby.”

He finally manages to pull the last bit of fabric from his torso, and immediately goes to undo his belt, fingers starting to shake as they slide past the slight v of his hips. He nearly trips while struggling to free his legs from their confines, stumbling to kick them off and abandoning his pants by the foot of the bed. Dream’s flat is particularly chilled tonight, and he shivers as the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his shoulders scrunch up out of natural reflex.

George finishes just in time, because the blond turns around hardly a moment later, sinful fingers running lithely up and the down loops of cotton line. “Look at you,” He coos, eyes raking over his exposed body like an animal evaluating its prey. “Lie down, on your back. Your ass is a lovely view, but it’s so much more fun to see your expression when I fucking ruin you.”

A hot glint of arousal races across the live wires of his skin as he nods and bows his head in submission before climbing onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and he situates himself on top of familiar sheets. “How would you like me tonight, sir?”

A wayward finger draws the lightest of lines up the inside of his knee, and he subconsciously jerks at the sudden touch, which immediately tightens around his leg to press him still. The pressure only relents once George regains his bearings. “You’re just being so obedient today, aren’t you?”

He nods, although he knows that words are needed to move forward. “I want to please you.” George confesses and, amidst all the half-truths he’s telling, this isn’t one of them. The press of sheets against the dip of his bare spine always makes him more honest. 

“Good boy,” Dream praises, that one teasing finger tracing patterns into his flesh. “Such a good boy for me, George.”

The words send an immediate rush of blood southward, entirely reflexive and entirely beyond his control. His eyes flutter shut and a part of him melts into quicksilver. 

“But you weren’t good last week,” The blond reminds him, hands sliding until they can grip George’s wrists and tug them: quickly. “So, you keep behaving tonight while I punish you for that. We need to make sure you know who you belong to, hmm?”

It isn’t a question, not really, but he answers it as though it were one nonetheless. 

His arms are yanked upward and into position and only one of Dream’s broad hands is needed to pin his wrists together as he holds him down with an easy force. Even if George were to struggle, his grip feels steadfast enough that he knows it wouldn’t do him much good. The idea of Dream restraining him like this, using only his own body to possess him— the harsh hold of his long fingers, the spread of his own hips, his lean muscle pressing down just where it’s needed— makes tangerine flames lick at the branching trails inside his lungs.

“You know, you really blush a lot, Georgie,” The man above him comments, eyes fond yet bitterly teasing: a precarious balance to hold. “No matter what I do. It starts in those soft cheeks of yours, and spreads all the way down to your thighs sometimes.”

He fights the automatic response that he knows is both unavoidable and entirely expected, but relents as he feels heat spill out of his control and begin to stain his face the color of dewed, newly blooming roses. 

“Yeah, just like that, doll,” Fingers— sharp and lethal in their possession— tighten around his wrists. “So sweet for me, even though I know just how debauched you really are.” Dream leans down and murmurs the last clause directly into his ear, hot breath fanning down his neck and across the high of his cheek. It makes George gasp and his body seize. 

Dream pulls back, turning his focus away from whispering terrors into his ear and returning it to his task at hand: restraining him, utterly and completely. The rope George has begun to know so well, more like an old lover than an object at this point, is retrieved and slowly unspun while Dream holds heavy eye contact with him the entire time. He can’t help but squirm under his gaze, so intense that he feels pinned more thoroughly than he ever has with rope or capable hands. Dream eyes him like an animal, scraping over his exposed skin like he’s about to devour him, and he fucking adores it. 

Conquest. That’s the kind of sex they have. It’s not about tenderness, or fulfilling emotional needs: this is physical, every single bit of it. George lets Dream hurt him, and Dream lets George enjoy it. That’s all this is, and it’s all it ever can be. 

The rope he’s using today feels just slightly smoother, sliding with less hassle and catching less than they usually do on the crooks of wrist, slightly damp from the sweat trapped there by the layers needed to ward off the frozen February beyond the safety of insulated glass panes and stone brick walls. 

He still fawns in the light of Dream’s eyes, but he manages to work his way around the lump in his throat to finally speak. “Are these- is this new? The rope.”

The blond blinks down at him for a moment, processing what it is that he’s said, before a soft smirk lights across his lips, tugging faded amaranth into a tremendously pleased smile. “Mm-hmm; bought ‘em just for you, Georgie,” He answers, pulling one loop tighter around his wrist as he does so. “Thought you deserved something real nice, so I ordered something a little higher-end than I usually use. Silk should feel lovely against your skin, baby, don’t you think?”

George flushes at that, but he’s still unable to break the other’s gaze. Words take him a few seconds more to compose. “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me,” Dream clarifies with a relaxed voice, finally moving those gilt eyes back to his knotted work— now in silk rather than cotton line. “I didn’t do it as, like, a power thing. I just wanted you to be more comfortable. Your rope burn was pretty rough last time: I felt bad.” The slide of tightening knots is more audible in the new material, but too soft to be grating on his ears. He tries to let that sound drown out the sincerity in Dream’s voice.

“I- they were? I didn’t really notice.” His quick-tempered flight from Dream’s flat blurred a lot of his recollections from that night, the subtle aches is his body pushed even further into the background of his consciousness. The blond hadn’t even been particularly rough with him then, physically-speaking, and any aches and pains that had resulted that night must have been minor enough to be swallowed whole by that glorious haze that always followed, or the aftershocks of adrenaline that always accompanied it. 

Dream can tell that he’s evading his gaze, and makes no move to force their eyes into lockstep. “Well, I noticed,” He clarifies, looping more slippery silk around his right wrist. “And it’s my job to make sure you’re okay.” There’s a threadbare honesty in his tone that suddenly  makes breathing much more difficult for George.

“I—” He starts, words hitching. “I appreciate it. You’re- you’re really sweet to me, Dream.”

He’s not looking at him, but he can feel the tender smile that graces Dream’s face in his periphery. “Of course, baby. I like being sweet— sometimes.”

The joke helps lighten the tight bundle of inexplicable nerves in his chest, and he’s immediately thankful for it, doing everything in his power to detangle them one frayed wire at a time.

George’s familiarity with rope has grown tenfold in the weeks he’s spent with Dream, and he even recognizes the ties that are being built as he thinks. He knows where the knots will settle, pressing sweetly against pressure points until he feels sensation running electric down his arms. There’s three more loops there, a tie there, and another an inch above it. It’s still ritual, but it’s time-worn now. There is comfort to be found in the familiar gestures, and it’s something to ground him as he carefully treads the dark waters of that place where his heart and mind meet. 

And here it is: that timbre, laced with cool command and easy ownership. “Pull.”

He doesn’t move when he strains against his binds, and the new press of silk is sweet, but not nearly as sharp as he’s gotten used to. In any other circumstance, he would be grateful for the reprieve: Dream did this for his comfort, so that he could maintain better control of the situation and everything that George felt while inside of it. But, the more his thoughts peak and seethe in his synapses, the more he’s filled with a burning disappointment. The subtle bite that the chafing of cotton line had brought— rubbing him strawberry fields where he strained— had been grounding, somehow. That had been true when they’d first started, when George was entirely overwhelmed and nothing more than an open nerve; and it’s true now, where he needs every single tool in his mental box to distract himself out of confessing while Dream fucks him into the mattress until he can see God. This act of kindness throws a wrench in things: he has to be even more careful now.

“It’s nice and tight, sir.” He manages to choke out, relaxing in the ropes’ hold.

Dream flashes him a self-satisfied smirk as he ghosts long fingers over the cavalcades of silk cording wrapped around George’s wrists, admiring his work. “I’m gonna do your legs next, doll. I want you gorgeous and spread open for me, okay?”

Almost reflexively, George spreads his legs against the sheets, exposing every part of himself to the silent, watchful eyes of this flat, and softly grunts— a little, broken sound that only makes the man responsible laugh lowly and drag his hands further down, bringing sweet torment with them. Broad palms and spindled fingers linger at the slightest dip of George’s waist, spreading between two anchors of bone and gently squeezing. It’s as though Dream is savoring him, stroking his sides and kicking his already nervous heart into overdrive. 

“So pretty,” He murmurs, a quiet longing— a quiet awe — in his timbre. “I just can’t wait to bruise you up.”

This needs to end before I say something stupid. “Then get on with it.” There’s dangerous pressure immediately applied to his hip bones. “Please.” George adds on, and the supplement seems to pacify Dream enough, whose hands slide and roughly seize his thighs to spread him further. 

“Watch yourself, fucking brat,” He warns, bending George’s knees so that he can tuck his heels against his ass. “Don't want to make your punishment worse, right? Or, well, maybe you do since you’re such a masochistic slut.”

The instinctive whimper he responds with leads to a hard pinch high on his inner left thigh, causing the noise to open into a tender cry, a silent plea for more. The flush that Dream’s index finger and thumb leave behind throbs in the forefront of his thoughts. “I- I’m sorry, really. I’m sorry.”

The blond just hums, figure imposing without even trying as he towers over George. “You need to make it up to me, George. It’s my job to punish you when you don’t behave, and it’s your job to accept it, yeah? That’s how we have to work for this to work, so make sure you do your part.”

George nods enthusiastically, chewing on his bottom lip until he swears he can taste the copper tang of blood. 

“God, I’d fucking love to do one of those really elaborate displays on you. The full body ones, or the ones that suspend you from the ceiling, you know?” Dream muses, starting his own smaller scale work on his milken thighs. “It’d take me so fucking long to get you all set up, and I bet you’d just be trembling for me, wouldn’t you, baby?”

He lets himself imagine it: so much prolonged touch, so much of his body caressed and brushed by Dream’s tan, practiced fingers. Denied for so long, getting turned on before he was supposed to: it would be a bold-faced lie to say that he didn’t find the concept appealing. “I would.” He coos, low and wanting. 

It’s hardly audible, but the smirk Dream bears proves that it was audible enough. “You’d look gorgeous like that: just covered in rope. So pretty with your pale, pale skin and bright rope. What color do you think you’d look prettiest in, doll? Red? Black?” Careful latticework begins to wrap around his thighs, softly digging into the plump flesh there, spurring a visible reaction from Dream as he softly groans at the sight, clearly just the slightest bit enamored with it. 

“I- I can’t see red, remember?” He answers, and he’s starting to have to put effort into staying still. 

Dream tuts, not displeased, but not happy either. “Oh, baby, you don’t believe me when I say you look fucking stunning in red?”

The praise washes over him in incandescent waves, fluttering his eyelids shut as his face gently warms. “No, I believe you. Do you think I’d look best in red?”

There’s a sudden tightening of rope against sensitive skin, almost enough that it feels like it’s snapped. “I know you look best in red,” He clarifies. “Black’s lovely, but what a shame you can’t see yourself like this; it fucking glows on your skin.”

God, he adores it when Dream says such beautiful things. It makes him blush like he’s discovering love for the first time, and it makes his cock stiffen against his stomach: glorious and sinful dichotomy; ebon-ivory want; soaring pitched desire.

And he notices, because of course he fucking does, and briefly leaves behind the smooth rope to lilt his fingers up the tender flesh of George’s inner thighs. They trail up and further up still until a trim fingernail just barely glances— feather-light and teasing— along the vein on the underside of his cock. He arches out of reflex, chasing Dream’s touch, but it quickly departs before it ever even gets near the sensitive head. “Look at you.” Dream intones, more to himself than to the man beneath him, and George swears that he sees the other bite down on his lip. 

His right leg is permanently drawn into its curled position, leaving him embarrassingly splayed already, even though Dream is only halfway done. George feels his chest begin to flush at the exposure and the heavy, possessive gaze it brings with it, helpless to stop the shameful arousal of it all. 

“Not too tight?”

He just shakes his head, too nervous to make eye contact, and he hopes it’s enough. 

It isn’t. “Georgie, we’ve talked about this: words, please, or you won’t be getting anything tonight. Not my fingers, not my cock— nothing.”

Stammering his way into a response doesn’t help him feel any better. “N-no. Not too tight. It’s just enough, like you always do.”

Dream hums, lilting his fingers along flesh that’s all too overly-attuned to every drag of the swirling ridges on their pads. 

“Please,” He breathes, able to choose from a revolving gallery of desires to ask for, some much more dangerous than others. He settles for something tamer. “You have to tie me up, sir. Need your help to be good for you.”

“Needy little fucking thing, aren’t you?” Dream drawls, softly appraising him with consideration as he struggles to keep his hips still beneath him. He sighs, discontented, and lets it seep into the heavy air around them. “How many times do I have to put you in your place, hmm? How many times do I have to pin you down and teach you that you have to stay still ?”

There’s no response that he can properly summon, not when an ember of gloried threat lies heavy in Dream’s words, only a single breath away from being fanned into an inferno. 

“So, you’re keeping your mouth shut?” He continues, tightening the silk cord a little too quickly so that it snapped against his thigh and bit down. “Well, that’s probably the better choice, considering how much you’ve been acting out these past couple of times. We don’t want you saying something that I’ll have to make you regret, now do we?”

You have no idea, Dream. He nods, silent. 

As the blond is structuring his careful restraints, he tilts George’s knee just the wrong way and a dull crack! rings out from deep beneath his muscle. 

“Ow.” George comments, simple and bare: monotonous. 

Dream looks down and blinks, confused yet still concerned. “Wh- are you alright? That didn’t sound… great, per se.”

There is a long beat of quiet before one of them breaks. It’s George that falls first, a hideous snort bubbling up from his chest as he bursts into ragged laughter, joined by Dream’s squeaking wheezes only a moment later. “Oh, haven’t they told you?” He asks, voice ladened with false melodrama. “All your joints start to fail the moment you turn twenty-four. It’s an ancient curse.”

“God, how could I have forgotten all about that?” Dream giggles, eyes scrunching and hiding pyrite from the other’s watchful gaze. George misses them for a moment, before he realizes just how lovely the glee-crinkled crow’s feet are— just as stunning in their own way. “That’s the first thing they teach us all in health class.”

“No, I—” George is interrupted by his own laughter. “I’m fine, really. What a way to ruin the mood, though.”

Dream draws a gentle touch over the jut of his kneecap, tracing the smooth edges of bone as though he were committing them to memory. “Oh, come on now, baby. You’ve seen how we are together: nothing could fully ruin the mood.” He hears the playful lust on his tongue. 

(What George doesn’t hear: I want you any way that I can have you. You make me ravenous— like I’ve never been before, and I don’t understand it. But, I do understand that I need you , George.)

“Bold assertion.”

“Bold retort from someone who’s literally already dripping onto his stomach.”

George turns a furious shade of carnelian, doing his best to bury at least one ruddy cheek into the pillows to hide it from view. “I- that’s not—”

The click of a tongue against the back of pearled canines cuts him off, cracking through petrol-heated air. It silences him as thoroughly as if his mouth were sewn shut. “You can deny a lot, Georgie, and I’ll be none the wiser, but this?” The flat of a fingernail drags up George’s cock, making him cry out and his eyelids squeeze shut. “Well, this is a little too obvious to lie about. Are you going to start trying to lie to me?” His voice is shot through with a frigid core of dominance which makes George do nothing but comply. 

“N-no, I’m not.”

Dream hums blithely and entirely nonchalant as he almost completely discards the other man’s response. “Lying? That’s really what you’ve reduced yourself to? I thought you wanted to be good, George. I’m disappointed.”

He swallows, thick and unsteady, and attempts to gather his courage in the wake of his last sentence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- that wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

“What was it that you wanted to do, then?” Ice and unyielding steel. “If you didn’t wanna lie to me, then what did you want to do?”

George wants to die right then and there. “I- I mean it’s- I love being spread open for you, but it makes me feel so… embarrassed.” He finishes softly, voice only a glorified whisper. It crosses his mind that Dream might not even really hear him.

“And why is that, doll?” Dream has returned to working his fingers around careful knots, yanking silken rope taut against the flesh of George’s thighs and calves. “Why would you be embarrassed about me seeing you?” It only takes a moment of rhetorical digging to uncover the fact that, while there’s clear care there, it’s mostly curling taunt. 

It’s almost as if the tighter he screws his eyes shut, the more likely it is that he can disappear beneath Dream’s scrutinizing gaze. He knows it’s futile, of course, but it’s worth trying as shameful blush starts to settle, thick, on the flats of his cheeks. “I just feel…” George trails off briefly, uncertain of how exactly he wants to vocalize the complicated sensations swirling through his hips as his knees are held wide and apart by supple rope and calloused hands. “So exposed. Makes me feel so filthy even though it’s for you. And I just- it makes me even more embarrassed because I… actually like it.”

Dream hums at the admission, clearly pleased with his honesty. “I see. Well, you’re in luck because I like it too,” He pushes George’s not-quite-bound knee further down into the mattress. “So it seems like you’d better get used to it, hmm? I like you like this because it means I can really take you at the pace I want.” 

“Yes, sir.” George intones, throat tight and scratched from anticipation. He loves this: the praise, the command, the subservience. He wants Dream to like him however he can get him to. 

“God, just fucking look at you,” Hunger drips from each growled syllable, and it claws at him. “I can’t wait to absolutely ruin you every single chance I get.”

He can’t help but flush at the stark lilt of possession. “Please.” 

Dream is finally done with him, double-checking each of his knots to make sure that the cord will hold despite George’s inevitable struggles when he begins to writhe beneath him. The binds he’s wrapped him in are as exacting as they normally are: pressing just where it’s sweet, and stinging just where it’s needed. It’s always so fucking perfect , and George chastises himself every single time they do this for not doing it sooner. 

Then again, maybe if he’d done it sooner, it might not be Dream who would have been tying him up. He honestly can’t tell whether or not that would be so much better than his current predicament, or so much worse. 

“Now, the real question: how should I punish you for misbehaving, baby?” Fingertips ghost along George’s navel, making him jump against the sheets, but Dream doesn’t stop, trailing them in coiling patterns across his stomach until they crawl up his sternum. Finally, his thumb juts out and pushes George’s chin toward the sky, pressing his head back into the pillows and applying a gentle pressure right to his windpipe from the stretch. “I still can’t get those little noises from when I last used the crop on you out of my head. There’s nothing quite like getting hands-on , but that skinny bit of leather made you fucking incoherent, doll.”

When he swallows next, gaze forced to the plaster sky of the ceiling, he can feel his Adam’s apple struggle to overcome only the slightest downward force pressed to it. “Whatever you think is best for me, sir.” The words are strained and delicate, each plucked carefully as he struggles to calm his rapid heart rate, only growing faster with anticipation. 

Then, just like that, the placebo restriction is yanked away, and his skin blazes at the absence. He wants Dream— no, needs Dream—to touch him. His contact is the only thing that can tether him in these vulnerable, volatile moments, regardless of whether it’s achingly tender or stingingly sharp. George wants to chase after it as his hand withdraws, but he’s too thoroughly bound to make much progress. 

It only takes an easy tilt of his still-rosy cheeks to watch the object of his unrequited affections strip off his shirt, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground as he reveals tanned skin and lean muscle before going to retrieve that thin leather construction which still bears the invisible imprints of George’s own skin. It’s hard not to openly salivate at the sight, and he feels his cock shamelessly twitch against his belly as Dream approaches with it. 

He’s refusing to touch George, entirely helpless and at his arbitrary mercy in his splay across sin-laden sheets, and only rakes his survey down the slightly-trembling body before him. “Where, oh where, to start,” Dream muses, letting his timbre drop several notes until it rumbles deep in his chest and becomes a frontal assault to George’s senses. “Have I mentioned just how much I love your pretty little thighs? So slim and so perfect; makes them so much more satisfying to mark up.”

George can’t help the shudder that wracks his body, even reverberating in his sternum. 

“You like that, don’t you?” It’s phrased as a question, but it isn’t one. “Just love being able to walk away from here with little reminders of me. Well, if I have my way, they aren’t that little.”

When he swallows before he speaks, he swears that he can feel the knot in his throat. “I do, sir.” It’s not such a shameful utterance as it once was now that he knows just why he enjoys the possessiveness of being marked— not just by anyone, but by Dream. He’d never been covetous before him: he’d never wanted jealousy before him. 

Without warning, the crop is brought down low on George’s left thigh, right above his knee, and licks his flesh raw. He can’t help the strangled yelp that’s wrenched from his throat, or the fact he jolts away from the impact. Dream is clearly displeased with the movement and harshly pins the offending hip until George almost swears he can feel the press of the bed frame beneath everything.

“Be still.” Dream commands, eyes narrow and blackened with a frustration that he knows he’s the only cause of. 

A whimpered  "yes" quickly spirals into a broken whine as the crop comes down again— on his other thigh this time. “How- how many lashes tonight?”

The small square of leather at the head presses against the screaming cacophony it had only just left behind before gently dragging up his inner thigh, closer and closer to where he needed to be touched most. “I’ll be honest, Georgie: I’m not sure you deserve to know just how many lashes you’re getting.” Caution threads through the silence that follows, giving George ample time to assert himself. He doesn’t. “I’ve been so fucking nice during all your prior punishments, but they obviously didn’t deter you enough. I think I’ll just have you take it this time, until I decide it’s over.”

The shift from the carefully-tending man tying him in knots (physically and mentally) to this harsh persona which makes his heart seize in the most glorious of ways is always sudden and almost alarming. It’s quick enough that it feels like Dream is just flicking a tiny switch inside of him: effortless and hardly even requiring thought. That ease is alluring, and he would be telling a bold-faced lie to say otherwise.

“I understand.” George breathes, doing his best to mentally prepare himself for the sting of saccharine agony. He knows, in the end, that even if the world were to move in slow motion as Dream’s arm carved its downward arc into the air, he still wouldn’t be fully prepared. There’s something beautifully surprising about it every single time, no matter what he did or how Dream hit him. Confusing and jolting and reeling bliss, but bliss nonetheless. 

There it is: unexpected and spiked as another mark is laid into alabaster. George loves how the crop bruises him come morning: thin, dark slashes that he knows are red and violet, even though he can’t exactly see either of those colors. They glow against his pallid body, standing out like the sweet strokes of calligraphed ink on fresh vellum, and it’s that delightful clarity that he so adores. Such clear marks of possession; such clear signs that, even though it’s not in the way he wants, he does belong to Dream.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” The other proposes, letting George carefully weigh the suspense for dramatic effect. “You can either stay still for this, or you can stay quiet. If you disobey me, I won’t let you come, do you understand?”

He takes in shuddering, recirculated air and swears he can taste adrenaline on his tongue. “I can stay quiet, sir.”

“Are you sure, baby? You’re normally so fucking loud, you know,” Dream retorts, one dark eyebrow arcing into an elegant curve of doubt. “Not that I’m complaining: I love how you sound when you scream for me.”

“I can, I promise. I can be good while you punish me.”

“Good boy.” He soothes, all silk and kind edges, before his arm coils back again and the flicker whip slices into George’s body once more.

The gasp that leaves him is an instinctual, guttural reaction, and it’s one that he cannot stop. He fears for a minute that Dream will count that as a noise, but the praising hum he responds with almost immediately puts the worry to rest. “Now, keep it up until I’m fucking done.”

In retrospect, George is glad he chose not to stay still. Each lick of pain kicks his body into writhing that’s entirely beyond his control as his hips jolt and the muscles in his stomach spasm. It doesn’t take long for tears to bead in the corners of his eyes before they become fallen dew on the apples of sanguine cheeks as they drip into his hairline. 

Dream is being really quite rough with him, merciless in his punishment and his possession. His skin begins to bloom, speckling his thighs amaranth and licorice before it begins to trail upward in spiraling cacophonies: his hips, his sides, the flirtatious edges of his ribs. All that he can do is softly gasp and bite his lip hard enough that his mouth begins to fill with the tangs of copper and iron. The rope still manages to restrain him, but he can’t stop when his body jerks and recoils from the pain, constantly trying to deny the feeling while simultaneously only feeding into the terrified arousal in the pit of his stomach. He’s hard: he’s so fucking hard, and Dream makes sure to comment on it between lashes. 

George, misted eyes hooded and turbulent with black waters, hiccups softly and looks up to the man responsible for his ecstatic agony, and does his best to plead without making a sound. 

The moment he makes eye contact, Dream’s expression softens, and his arm falters mid-strike. “You’ve been taking your punishment so well, Georgie. Just three more, alright? I want to make sure you really remember this. You deserve it after being such a brat last time, don’t you think?”

He lets his eyelids meet again, more salt slipping from between them. 

“I asked you a question ,” Dream reasserts, pressing the head of the crop against his voice box in a sudden display of threat as he leans down to hiss: “You deserve this after being such a brat last time, don’t you think ?”

George can feel hot breath fan across his face, and he’s far too scared of the proximity to open his eyes once he realizes just how close Dream is to him right now. He has to fight against the thrum inside of his ribcage to get himself under control. He was instructed not to make noise and he’s going to follow that dictate, because if Dream were to leave him high and dry, he just might about lose his mind; so, he does the only thing he can do and he nods. 

He can feel the heat withdraw as Dream blessedly pulls back again. “Good, you have learned your lesson. I was expecting you to talk back to me.”

He shakes his head vigorously, finally letting his eyes open again so that he can watch Dream watch him. George’s gaze is helplessly drawn to the riding crop gripped sternly but loosely in a spindly hand, lying in wait while its owner drags out the delay. He can do nothing as he watches Dream’s arm tense and coil like a viper before he’s struck again, right across that empty space between his hipbone and the last of his ribs. 

His spine turns into a painfully acute arch as he jerks into and away from the burn. Canines sink into his fuller lower lip and he’s fairly certain he’s finally broken skin. 

“Three,” Dream states: calm and even and measured, as though he weren’t actively turning the man beneath him black and blue. “And now for two.”

It comes again, hardly a centimeter from the last blow. George knows it’s intentional, that Dream is trying to bait him into making noise so that he can deny him pleasure later on (he would probably end up relenting on that if his constant laurels about how pretty George was when he came meant anything), but he wasn’t in the mood to push, so he simply lets the tears stream freely and tries to hold onto reality. 

The easiest way to do that is to focus on just how much he’s stickied his belly; just how much his cock throbs in tandem with every single lash on his body as his blood works its way through his burning self. George wants so desperately to be touched and feel relief at fingers wrapped around the most neglected part of him. He knows that the odds of doing anything but coming completely untouched are fairly slim, but maybe if, later on, he whines just like how he knows Dream likes it—

“Last one.” It’s laid across George’s chest and it screams when he cannot. “There we go, finally good for me again.”

A gentle touch finds its way to his left cheek, and he flinches just as violently at that as with any of the pain. Dream is visibly startled by his reaction for several long moments, but he tries again, more careful— more hesitant, and it’s not longer after that his thumb is dragging through the tracks of salt running across George’s cheekbone. He tries to fight the impulse, but he can’t help it when eyelashes flutter shut and he subconsciously tilts into his caress. 

“What did we learn from this, Georgie?” He questions, and his tone soft and sincere; yet there’s a sinister undercurrent of expectation. He has to get this answer correct or it’s going to haunt him later. “You can speak now.”

With the approval, George cracks open his eyelids open— just barely— and makes his attempt at a response. “I—” He’s interrupted by a reflexive sniffle as he tries to study his breath. “I won’t act out like that again, I promise.”

Another hand is pressed to his right cheek. “Like what? Need you to be specific, baby.”

“Like… like a brat.”

Dream finally seems satisfied, if the content smirk sliding across rosied lips means anything. After tending to his face for another few long moments, lightly-calloused fingertips pull away, and George has to fight every single impulse in his body to chase his contact. “How about I reward you now, hmm? Since you finally understand.” 

All of the thoughts in his brain begin to fuzz as he watches Dream saunter backwards just slightly before sliding teasing thumbs beneath his waistband, playing with it for what seems like an eternity before he finally starts to tug his pants off, soft fabric slipping down freckled thighs. Even if George had absolutely no idea of what lay beneath them, or the reward that was going to come after, he’d still be salivating. All of this pesky emotion— the stuff that made his chest ache and his head light— could be left behind the moment that Dream was inside of him. It was easy to forget when all he could feel was toe-curling pleasure (at least, that’s what he thinks).

A small piece of black fabric finally falls to the floor and George can, at long last, drink in the sight of the man he wants. Doling out punishment and watching its recipient writhe in his bed had clearly done a number on him, and he’s hard and throbbing against his stomach as he goes to grab for what he needs to properly prep him. When he climbs back onto the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight, George’s breath shudders in anticipation— a fact which doesn’t escape Dream’s attention. 

“Needy little fucking thing, aren’t you?” The click of the lube bottle’s cap doesn’t help his reactivity. “Don’t worry, baby: you’ll get me soon enough. You deserve to be rewarded now that you remember your place in this bedroom.”

He can’t even respond, eyes glued to long, tan fingers as Dream drizzles shine onto them in order to warm it up. It only takes half a second of thought to remember how Dream had looked last week, opening himself up while his back arched and his head tipped back so fucking beautifully and—

His reverie is broken by that same hand making its way between George’s legs, trailing over burning flesh before pressing against him: teasing and not making a move to slip inside. Dream stares down at him pointedly, one eyebrow raised in expectation as he waits for him to do what he wants: beg.

Swallowing pride gets easier by the day with Dream. “Please, sir. I need it so badly, need you so badly. Want you inside of me, want you to make me fall apart. Please, I’m fucking begging you—”

“I do love it when you do that, doll,” He rejoins, drawing lazy circles against George. “Why don’t you beg a little more, hmm? Tell me just how badly you want me.” 

George feels like his nerves are on fire. This is always the most unbearable part of their rendezvous, when satisfaction is finally within his reach, and yet so unbelievably far away. He can feel the pads of Dream’s fingers burn against the place where his thighs meet, and if it weren’t for the restraints binding him, he would push against them until he could finally address that ache rapidly building inside of him. “P-please,” He entreaties, still reveling in the burning marks littering his body and the throbbing arousal they provide. “Please, Dream. I can’t- I need it so badly. No one can take care of me like you do: I need you to fuck me until I can’t think anymore.”

That last part is true in a couple of ways, and the moment it slips from his mouth, he realizes the depth of it. George hadn’t meant to touch his hidden longing like that, and the creeping terror it sets off inside of him makes him all the more desperate to be treated just like how he’d asked. It’s urgent; it’s all-encompassing; and it can’t wait any longer. 

“What can I do? How can I get you inside of me? Please, I need you, I need— oh!” 

Dream finally indulges him, and a slick finger presses into him. It isn’t enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to distract, and that’s all that matters right now as he frantically tries to push certain thoughts from his mind. It’s sex, it’s dopamine, it’s pleasure: it can’t be more than that, so he focuses on those simple, plain things. 

“There’s those pretty noises of yours.” Dream coos, leaning down just slightly to better watch George as his head tips back and his back gently arches to urge him further inside. “Want more, baby?”

He sobs out a “Please!” before he feels a second finger push against him, stretching him just too far for just a moment, but the pain hardly even registers against the stinging background of the crop’s remnants. A quiet groan slips from his lips, and he reflexively tries to squirm away at first. “Slow, I’m—”

He’s hushed with soft sounds, Dream’s free hand coming to rub soft circles against his bruised hip bone. “Too eager, I can feel. Just breathe for me, okay? I’ll take care of you, I promise.” 

George lets out a shuddering breath, but he nods his assent, doing his best to relax. At a time like this, pushing and pulling between physical sensation and emotional turmoil, he’d turn his attention toward the bite of rope against his skin, but Dream’s own kindness had taken that away. He’s only left with the yawning intolerance of his sparking dendrites. 

Fingers continue to slowly work in and out of him as he finally starts to grow accustomed to them, eventually starting to scissor him open while avoiding the single spot he needs them to touch. He can’t help the moans that start to escape his mouth.

“There we go,” Dream finally comments, crooked smile adorning a painfully tender facial expression. “Starting to feel better?”

He moans out some kind of response— not words, just sound— and tries to wiggle his hips into more stimulation. It’s ultimately fruitless. 

“We’ve talked about this. I need words, baby.”

“B-better,” George stammers, thighs starting to tremble as his body picks up the slack from earlier and reminds him of just how badly his cock is already leaking. “‘M okay now.”

Finally, fucking finally, those fingers curl just the right way, and he makes a sound loud enough to make him blush. 

To make everything all the worse, Dream is leaning down again, heated skin making contact with George’s own as he laves over the marks he’d left on the other’s chest, running his tongue across the surface of his skin before the gentle press of lips joins it. It’s bright, singing contrast to the way the exact same places had felt just moments ago, and strangled cries spill from his mouth as the assault from his fingers worsens when a third joins what’s already inside of him. 

He hates to admit that Dream could probably make him come several times over just from this. Sure, his fingers are longer and a bit thicker than George’s own, but there’s just something about the way he twists them that drives him just as insane as the emotions he lights within him. “God, I can’t wait to fuck you,” The man responsible comments, increasing the pace of his wrist as George writhes beneath him. “I think about it all goddamn week, you know. No one takes me like you do.”

A whimper is the only thing he can respond with, wishing he could hear Dream say that about George , not just about the way he feels wrapped around his cock. 

“Are you ready for me, doll?” He finally asks, withdrawing his fingers and leaving him painfully empty. “You feel ready.”

“Please, ruin me, sir.” George begs, cracking open his eyes as his chest shudders in anticipation. He does his best to turn his irises into pools of pleading, and the hitch of Dream’s breath catching in his throat makes it clear that he’s succeeded. 

Dream pours a small stream of cold lube onto his flushed cock, hissing at the relief friction finally provides, but it’s hardly a second later that he’s settling between George’s legs again, lowering his hips until he can press against him, slick and desperate to be full at last. “You know that I’ll do that to you no matter what you say.” He starts to lightly push forward, the burning head of cock only just catching on George’s rim and making him whine. “Come on, baby, fucking fall apart for me.” With that, he finally thrusts in, a soft gasp leaving his mouth as punctuation as he processes the heat wrapped around him. 

George fares so much worse, spine snapping into a tight arc automatically as he processes the prickling stretch of being filled. Dream always preps him well, but there’s a reason that he feels so split open no matter what, unused to having someone like him. After another five seconds of careful movement, Dream bottoms out and lets a breathy moan slip from between his lips, neck going lax so that his head hangs between his shoulders. “God, fuck, you feel incredible.”

This early on, George can hardly comprehend anything he’s feeling, senses overtaken with being so full against a background of bittersweet agony. “I—” He doesn’t know where he’s going with the sentence, so he goes back to gasping as he adjusts, resolutely ignoring just how close Dream is in this position, hands framing his ribs to support his bodyweight. 

Now , he thinks, is when I would kiss you.

---

The pressure around his throat starts light, just like it always does, as Dream continues to thrust into him. He brushes past George’s prostate with each movement, sending incandescent flats of arousal racing up his spine until they can settle in the core of his thalamus and set the rest of his body on fire. The hand not preoccupied with sweetly cutting back his air supply— the one still slick from where its fingers had been knuckle-deep in his mouth— goes to grip his hip, guiding his helpless form more thoroughly onto Dream’s cock.

George is being choked, just like he’d asked, but the tension against his carotids, thrumming with lifeblood and the jackrabbit heart of pleasure, isn’t really enough . He can still breathe, and his head is nowhere near the clouds. Hell, he’s hardly even left earth. “Harder,” He forces out, but the fight against Dream’s grip isn’t a strong one. “Choke me harder.”

There’s a bead of sweat forming on Dream’s left temple, the rest of his forehead just softly glistening from the time he’s spent fucking into George’s prone figure. His hips stutter for a moment, muscles in his stomach flexing with the change; he’s not particularly muscular, but god, if he isn’t still in perfect form. “You sure?” He questions, panting around the words. “I can tell you aren’t close yet.”

He nods, zeroing in on the squeeze around his throat and the way it lights up the rest of his body. If he can’t concentrate on the cut of vicious rope, he can concentrate on this. No emotions, no longing, no tenderness: Dream can wrap his hands around his neck and make him forget every single thing beyond the way his nerves fucking sing . “Please, I need it, sir.”

Dream eyes him for another moment, searching his face for hesitation or fibbage; George is concerned he’ll find it but, mercifully, he doesn’t, and so he digs sharp fingers into his arteries just a bit more. 

The stimulation is immediate, and the blood that’s cut off there rushes to his cock, twitching so hard it bobs against Dream’s own abdomen for a moment. With his windpipe crowded, he can’t make a noise as loud as he’d like, but the strangled moan that comes through is enough of a verbal live wire to express the point he wants to get across. Dream’s right, he’s still not close— they haven’t even been going for that long, in retrospect— but this will certainly cut his rope a lot shorter than it was beforehand. 

“God you sound so fucking pretty ,” The blond growls, snapping his hips forward with a particularly deep thrust that he almost swears he can feel in his stomach. “Hearing your breath hitch? Hearing how much louder you get the closer you are? It’s such a turn on, baby.”

He warbles out a keen, eyes fluttering shut as he focuses everything inside his skull on his hips and his throat. 

“Want to bite into your neck every time I hear you like this: every little sound, every little moan, every little hitch,” He continues, the sound of skin colliding with its match filling the room with obscenity. “But now that you want me to squeeze the mundane out of you, I don’t want my mouth to get in the way, yeah?” 

George can feel him asking, can feel him making sure this is what he wants. You can back out, he’s saying, We can come back to this later when you want to finish. 

“Another time.” He gasps, forcing it past the pressure and holding fast. Another time, when I’m not so stuck in my own head. 

---

There’s a glory to it: sweat-slick sheets and desperate fingers stamping bruises into alabaster skin, selfish calls to God and silent pleas for something he’ll never get. He’d enjoy this no matter what the actual circumstances were, only able to deny himself so much pleasure before he inevitably gave in to it, but there’s something about this that feels primal; feels vicious. 

Dream has only barely begun, smiling down at him with a wicked lilt of smugness and ownership. He presses his hips flush to George’s, moving slowly enough to not actually be enough, and he wants to writhe, but he’s bound too tightly for that tonight. “Oh, just look at you, baby,” He coos, thumb digging into a sanctimonious mark that had been laid earlier by dagger-sharp leather. “If only you could see yourself now. So fucking pretty for me, George.”

He whimpers at that, trembling as Dream draws everything out from the very start. He’s refusing to move even though he’s more than ready for it, and he knows that Dream wants him to beg. Desperate entreaties dripping from pearled canines: that was what it would take, but there’s something all too dangerous in that sort of truth, and George knows that he’s skirting a very fragile line. 

“Thank you, sir,” He gasps instead, putting all of his effort into sounding beautiful for him. “You treat me so well.”

There’s a laugh bubbling up from low in Dream’s chest, deep and turbulent and all too self-assured. “Now, you know as well as I do that those little compliments aren’t what I’m looking for, doll,” He presses harder into already-struck flesh and forces George’s back to arch into a painfully tight curve out of natural reflex. “What I want is for you to be honest with yourself; just this once. Tell me what you really need.”

He walks a razor’s edge.

Honesty is dangerous; honesty is tempestuous; honesty is alive and once it’s out, it has a habit of taking on a life of its own. The realization splashes his stomach with cold water and, for once, he wants nothing more than to have a gag in his mouth. 

“N-need you to make me a wreck,” George has to force his lips and his tongue to move the right way. “I need you to use me, to- to own me. Need you to make me something other than what I am.”

Dream executes a lazy thrust, clearly taking his time for some reason. “And what is it that you are?” The reason becomes apparent when, a few shallow movements later, he finds George’s prostate and makes him arch so far off the bed that his shoulders almost leave the mattress. 

He sobs out a moan as tears bead in the corner of his eyes again like wayward pearls. “I- I’m just myself. Want to be more, need to be more. You make me more.”

Honesty. He can’t give him the whole truth, but if Dream wants it? He’ll get it.

“Fuck,” He murmurs, picking up speed now that he’s found the perfect angle to make George fall to pieces, and something in Dream shifts when he hears how he responds. “You’re so filthy, aren’t you? It sounds like you want me to remind you what a whore you are for me— is that it? You wanna know how debauched you are?”

George can hardly think, the harsh language immediately going to his cock. “Fuck, yes, please, sir—”

“God, I love it when you get like this,” Dream practically spits it, lips curling with wicked desire. “It’s like every other thought and impulse in your mind shrinks until all that’s left is need. Is that it, baby? Is that what you mean?”

The blankness of his thoughts— some willful, some incidental— only proves his point. “I- Yes, it’s- ah!” 

“You can barely keep your thoughts straight, can you?” It’s a taunt this time, and it lets George start to completely bathe in need rather than longing, rather than yearning. “Seems like all you’re capable of thinking about right now is how good I’m making you feel. God, you’re so pathetic that you just can’t focus on anything else but my cock, aren’t you?”

His vocal cords simply shred themselves when he cries out a half-baked reply.

Dream’s thrusts are brutal and his pace is fast, unforgiving; he can’t even tell at this point whether he’s fucking him to satisfy only himself, or to make George shatter. They’re one and the same now. “Well, I love it, baby: I love how incoherent you get,” He’s starting to pant. “Love how weak you are to everything I do to you. Are you like this with everyone you sleep with, or is it just me?”

Oh no. We can’t have this. The emotion is bleeding back into his consciousness again, reminding him of just how much he wants Dream, of just how uniquely vulnerable he is to Dream, of just how much he needs to be really, truly, adored by Dream. He needs to ignore them. He needs to get all those pesky voices in his mind to shut the fuck.

So, he shuts himself up instead. He can’t accidentally confess to his traitorous longing if he keeps his tongue bitten.

---

Dream listens and starts to squeeze harder, only letting through a trickle of air. Better. It’s better. This is better, he can focus on this; after all, it’s harder for him to dwell on his own unbearable yearning when he’s not getting quite enough oxygen to think straight. 

He can feel precum drip from the pent-up head of his cock, joining the small pool that’s started to form on his belly, even though he knows he isn’t close yet. George thinks back to the night Dream had made him come over and over and wonders if he can urge him into doing that again tonight. He can tell the man driving into him isn’t nearly done chasing his own peak, and it’s likelier than not that George will finish first— he almost always does, after all. 

He thinks back to last time. Do you want to come again? Dream had asked after he’d painted George’s chest with ivory and, in normal circumstances, he would have said yes. Why didn’t he say yes? Why did he run? God, that was so fucking stupid, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I just get a grip?

Oh no. No, no; this isn’t where he wants his thoughts to go. Think of something else, anything else. Focus on the pleasure, focus on the pain. Don’t think about it, don’t think about him, don’t think about what you want to be to him. 

“Harder,” George rasps out instead, wishing he could scream to drown out his stupid fucking romantic visions. “Choke, harder.”

Dream’s pace actually falters and so, too, does his façade. “I- Are you sure?” 

“Can still breathe,” He pushes out, words clear evidence of the fact. “You’re not choking me.”

“I mean, yeah, I’ll do that when you’re close but we still have so much time left, and—”

“ Harder. ” George repeats, opening his eyes and boring holes into Dream’s skull until he gets his point. 

The man on the other end blinks a few times, but shakes his head for a moment to clear it and eventually moves on, pressing even harder into the sides of George’s throat. “If you’re sure.”

He’s feeling gloriously dizzy, eyes rolling back into his skull at the heightening sensation. Every ounce of blood in his body feels alive all of a sudden, and he only grows more attuned to every single touch with each passing second. His nerves are on fire. His bones are turning to ice. His thoughts are choppy and disordered, just like he needs them. He wants to come, or maybe he doesn’t; he can’t be sure anymore. 

Dream fucks into him with the same vicious pace that he’s been using for some time now, using George’s neck as new leverage to drag him back onto his cock with each thrust. It’s unbelievably harsh and animalistic and fucking primal and it’s glorious, because all he has to think about now is the feeling of Dream crashing against his prostate with every single rapid movement. He can feel his face growing warm from the restriction of air, undoubtedly flushing his cheeks crimson and carnelian and the faintest kiss of maroon. How long has he had Dream’s large hand wrapped around his throat? A minute? Two? No, it’s more than that: it has to be . He feels too good.

“You’re still so tight,” Dream marvels, face starting to contort with careful pleasure as he keeps an eye on George. “Choking you out just makes you tighter, you know. So perfect for me, so fucking perfect.”

He doesn’t want praise, not right now. He only wants to think about the brutality and the depravity of it all. Dream makes him feel filthy , and filth is easy to understand. “More.”

The pleasured smirk falls from Dream’s face, replaced by heaps of hesitancy. “Are you close?”

George tries to force out a “no,” and, while he can still breathe, talking has grown difficult. All that comes out is a closed n sound. 

His thrusts start to slow and lose their breathtaking force. “George, I’m not cutting you off completely if you aren’t close. I’m already pressing really fucking hard: harder than I normally would for this long.”

“Just- please , sir,” He tries, batting dark eyelashes at him in a way that usually makes Dream melt for him. “I want it.”

“You might want it,” He fires back, stern but still gentle. “But it’s my job to make sure you’re safe. I won’t do that yet. I don’t want to hurt you.” Dream’s hips start to move again, clearly trying to get him to not notice the grip on his neck loosening. 

He feels the tic in his right cheek briefly set off, and he has to take a moment to steady the rising tumult of frustration in his chest. “You won’t. Fucking more , Dream.” There’s no begging, no pleading like he usually does: this is a demand. 

“No,” His voice is growing lower, burnt siennas and sun-stroked skies. “I’ll do it when you’re closer.” He chooses to ignore George attempting to order him around. 

“I’ll be fine,” To say he spits it is an understatement. His voice has a steel edge, growing impatient in his desperate bids to forget about just how badly he wants Dream to be sweet with him. If he’s rough, if he’s merciless, if he treats him like just something to be used, he can forget all about the gentility that only makes him ache to the point of tears. George squeezes his eyes shut as his eyebrows scrunch in growing anger. “Just do it, please. How much begging do I need to do? Want you to squeeze fucking harder ; I don’t even care if you hurt me, I just need—”

The words are killed in his mouth by a light slap to his cheek that shoots his eyelids back open. It’s not rough, not meant to hurt, and there’s no malice behind it, just like the same warning he’d been given their first night together; clearly, it’s just to get his attention, and it works. “I do, George!” Dream exclaims, voice sharper and more tense than he’s ever heard it. “I fucking care! I know that I make it seem like you’re the only person in this bed, because that’s what I like doing, but you’re not . I’m- I won’t risk doing something we’ll both regret later. I have my own fucking boundaries!” His shout shatters every last bit of the carnal peace of the bedroom. George has gone too far.

There’s a roiling cacophony of chemicals rushing through his blood and thrumming in his veins, and their flickering communication with the neurons in his brain makes an intensity spread along the branches of his body that he doesn’t expect. George is frustrated, he’s riled up, and he desperately wants to smother the emotions that he doesn’t want to acknowledge he feels for Dream. Suddenly, spurred on by the burning of his cheek and the heavy-handed beat of his own heart, he cracks, and does something he’s never done before with Dream. 

He safewords. 

“You know what? I’m done: marigold. Untie me.” He demands, looking away from the man above him. 

“Wait, what’re you—”

“I’m clearly not in the right headspace for this tonight. Untie me ,” He repeats, voice uncompromising and harder than he means for it to be. “I’m going home.”

George isn’t looking directly at him, but he can almost perfectly visualize the expression of shock and confusion decorating Dream’s beautifully-cut face, blinking faster than he ought to be as he processes it. “I—” He stammers, working his mind around the rapid shift in the mood. “Okay. I’ll untie you.” He sounds bewildered, and just a bit lost, and it tugs on his heartstrings for a moment. Dream’s voice isn’t fit for melancholic resignation. 

But, George is too angry to dwell on it. 

Dream pulls out and he has to stifle his own whines at the loss, fighting the vicious arousal that still swirls deep in his hips. He doesn’t want to stop, but he just can’t do this tonight: pretend that he feels nothing and wants nothing more than a fuck. It’s too much this time. 

He feels his legs untied, twisted rope gradually slipping from the limbs and, despite the fact George is clearly fuming, Dream is still gentle, thumbs softly rubbing over the marks the ropes leave behind. It doesn’t help the sentiments he’s doing his goddamn best to deny. The harness around his torso is next, followed by his arms. George can feel the other about to ask him to move, so he does it before the instructions can come and snaps at him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

A flicker of hurt crosses his face in George’s periphery, but he forces himself to ignore it. Dream stays quiet, and the silence is desperately uncomfortable while he works: he finds himself lamenting the loss of the easy warmth they’re used to enjoying. 

The moment he feels his wrists finally freed, he snatches them out of Dream’s hold and climbs from the bed to search for his clothing, scattered across the floor of the bedroom in a parade of lust. George can feel the other watching him from his spot on the mattress, making no movement to pursue him, clearly receiving the signal that George is done, there’s nothing Dream can do to fix it at the moment, and he wants to be left alone. He does his best to ignore his shy gaze and slips on his boxers and his jeans, having to deal with the fact he is very much still hard and can still feel lube slicking the space where his thighs join. It takes adjustment and makes heat rise to his face, but he just needs to get out. His coat will cover anything shameful.

Dream is clearly working up courage to say something, and the anxiety of it bleeds into the air before it’s even broached. “Can- can I at least drive you home?”

“No, I’m taking the train.” Finality; a heavy air of it.

“Oh,” He softly responds, voice unreadable. “Okay.”

George finally pulls his sweatshirt back over his head and feels an eye twitch out of irritation. He’s aware that the anger is irrational, and ridiculous, and stupid, so he knows better than to actually let it all spill out in front of Dream. He doesn’t deserve whatever punishment George could reign down on him out of a one-sided longing that’s eating away at him like a parasite in his lifeblood. There’s only one way for him to act unless he wants to risk absolutely ruining everything, and he would rather have a shadow of what he wants than nothing at all. 

He can apologize later. For now, he just needs to leave. 

Dream has stayed completely unmoving from his perch on the edge of his bed, tall body curled into itself as he rests his elbows on his knees and stares awkwardly off to the side, studying the patterns embossed by grain into the wood veneer of his dresser as though he is seeing them for the first time. His golden hair is gently mussed, probably from where George had run his hands through it, and he doesn’t have to think very hard to feel phantom silken strands between his fingers as he puts every ounce of his willpower in shutting up and fleeing from this flat. 

Eventually, he is fully dressed and turns on socked feet until he can push open the door to the bedroom, leaving Dream behind. There’s a heaviness in his chest that he neither understands nor wants to feel, and he can practically feel his hands shoving it down his throat as he slips on his boots, jamming in his feet without even undoing the laces. It’s uncomfortable, and the bite on his Achilles as he finally slides his ankles in hurts. If he concentrates, he can hear the creak of the floorboards from where Dream is undoubtedly watching him from the hallway. He doesn’t want to face the expression he bears: confused, uncertain, undoubtedly hurt, so he keeps his gaze trained on the front door’s peephole as he slides on his coat and hurriedly yanks the zipper upward in that uniquely harsh screech it causes when moved far too quickly. 

“George, I—”

“Don’t.” He cuts him off. He can’t do this tonight so, even though he hardly has the wherewithal to grab his scarf and his gloves, he finally flings open the door and slams it behind him.

When George spills back onto the street with all the elegance of a newborn deer, he feels like he’s about the wretch. Fissures in the sidewalk are treacherous, feet so much unsteadier than they normally are, and each stumble is accompanied by a gasp of frigid air as he reels.

Out. He needs to get out, he needs to get out: out, out out outout out —

His eyes sting from more than the shearing wind, and he has to scrub at them furiously with his coat sleeve to avoid any more humiliating shame rising turbulent inside of him. God, fuck , why is he doing this? Why is he shedding tears over something beyond his control? What use is there in mourning something that could never be, in the first place? An empty crypt without an inscription: worth nothing, worth not even wasted thought. 

This is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. 

It’s something like nine o’clock at night, now and, on a Friday, that means sidewalks are crowded and streets congested. Eight million other lives pass him by, gloriously and completely oblivious to the tumult inside of him that is on the verge of eating him alive. The ravenous, cavernous hunger inside of him is consuming every single thought inside of his mind until he can hardly tell where it ends and where the rest of George begins. 

He wants so much these days, and he wants so intensely that it’s starting to properly scare him. Never before has he been so swept up in such a vicious current of corrosive longing: the kind that threatens to scramble every single neuron that he has left and stop each neurotransmitter in its tracks. It’s the kind that makes him stop functioning, and he’s painfully unused to it. Thoughts of Dream and the confusion he brings swarm every single square millimeter of his mind until the entire world fades into the background.

His shoulders are colliding with strangers’, apologies leave parted lips out of reflex as frosted air spills out before him, and he hardly has the mind to remember what streets he needs to turn onto to find his homebound ticket.

Chestnut to Clark to Grand; through the night air and then he could disappear beneath the earth and finally flee: flee all of it, the longing and the anger and the guilt at leaving him behind. 

If this were some film cliché, all lens flares and fish-eyed panoramas, it would undoubtedly be snowing: the heavy sort weighed down with ice crystals and frigid fog. But, this isn’t that: it’s just bland, un-cinematographed life, and there are no pleasant flights of white descending from never-darkening skies and muted storm clouds. There is only this: a fractured sidewalk in desperate need of repair, the hostile anonymity of a crowd, and feelings that he knows are unrequited at best.

Dream is a lot of things. On the surface, he’s a man handsome enough to model, with golden tresses and even more golden eyes. Freckles dust his face like wayward stars, and his smile becomes their moon once his lips part. He’s lean and tall and his shoulders have a gentle slant that make them look strong enough to embrace him, but never truly hurt him. Once they’re finished for the night, he wraps his arms around him like an acolyte beholding their god. He’s kind. In another life, he could mean the world to George; he could be the world to George. 

Beneath the surface, he makes everything in George ache: steeped in acidic yearning and burning him from the inside out. He has no idea that each thing he does somehow hurts, and George knows better than to tell him as much. Dream doesn’t mean to hurt him like this and, if he were to be clued into this entire dreadful schema, he has little doubt he would be met with surreptitious apologies followed by an awkward distancing that would only make him even more pained than before. 

That’s why he has to keep this to himself and work out his fucking feelings. 

He’s standing at an intersection, dizzy and desperate to get home, and every single sound around him screams in his ears. The whoosh of passing cars and late night winter wind smash into his eardrums with a vengeance; the chatter of happy strangers, drunk and going places, pierces them; the beeps of the crossing signals and the distant whine of ambulances and police cars makes him want to burst into tears. Everything is too much all of a sudden, and he’s jaywalking without a second thought, crossing before a black CUV speeds across the street and nearly clips him. They lean on their horn. George’s skull feels like it’s about to crack. 

Grasping the worn bronze handrail as he descends is the only thing that keeps him tethered to reality. He grabs his transit card with trembling hands, hardly able to slip it from his wallet as he stumbles through the turnstile, regret on his lips and disappointment at himself gathering in the corners of his eyes. He’s breathing fast. Is he breathing fast? He feels like he’s breathing fast. Has the ceiling always been this low? The mosaic’s so lovely, it is: impossible stars arching over a blurred cityscape that’s turning to fractals as the pressure behind his eyes starts to mount. He feels like it’s so close he could melt right into it and live in some altered reality. It’s so, so blue: it’s one of the few mosaics that he can see in its entirety because of it. It runs down the entire main area of the terminal, framed by chromatic arches and baby blue walls emblazoned with a host of information he isn’t equipped to process. A nonsensical cathedral of urban legend and subway grates.

Southbound, northbound, the Loop, West Side: it’s all too much and all too flashy and the LEDs suddenly burn his retinas. He needs to get out, get away, go somewhere quiet, but the only thing that fills his senses is everything . The trains rumble beneath, making every tile in the station shudder; the people talk in every corner of the building until their voices carry to the rafters; the beeps of the ticket machines and scanned transit cards ping-pong around his brain until he can hardly see straight. He thought it would be better underground.

Turns out, it’s worse. 

George has been to this station enough times to know where he needs to stumble to find isolation here, and he has to reach out his arm to skim along the groutlines of the wall in order to maintain his grip on the world as it threatens to tip and spin out of control. His heart is going a thousand miles a minute; his ears sound like they’re full of water; his fingers tremble. If someone had told him twenty minutes ago that this is where he would be, that this is the shape he would be in, he wouldn’t have believed them.

Finally, like a lighthouse in rough seas, he sees the bathrooms down the last flight of stairs and goes to hide, frantically flinging open the one single-user room and slamming the door shut behind him, rattling the frame before it’s locked three times over. 

Alone at long last, George takes in a shuddering, wheezing gasp, and grabs for his coat. He’s so hot; why is he so hot? He wasn’t burning up a second ago. Once the down-lined thing has been discarded carelessly to the floor, he grips at the fabric of his jumper over his chest, heaving breath coming in quick bursts. His heart has migrated to his throat and he can hardly think about anything beside how wrong it feels. It’s like he’s sprinted seven miles and he isn’t sure why. 

George fights for every piece of air, swallowing down whatever oxygen he can get as his head starts to feel light. Dizzy and exhausted, he collapses against the back of the door and sinks, crouching on the floor as he tips his head back into the wood with a resounding thud . 

The trembling won’t abate, and the gasping won’t stop, and his heart won’t slow the fuck down, and the tears come naturally now. 

“What the fuck—” A gulp of air. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” His question immediately bowls over into a frantic sob that he can’t, for the life of him, control. 

He raps the heel of his hand against his sternum in a bid to regain some semblance of calm, but it does nothing, and salt keeps on streaking down his cheeks as he tries to learn composure again. George’s body is rebelling against him, totally and completely, and he wants to scream. 

He needs to do something , the energy pent up inside of him too much for his skin. A fist comes out to collide with the grimy, tiled wall: once, twice, three times, until his bones ache but no damage has been caused. “What is wrong with me, oh my god, what have I done ?”

George knows he’s blown it: whatever this thing was that lay between him and Dream. He’s pushed too hard, and asked for too much, and he lashed out when the only thing he should have done was be honest.

(Well, not entirely honest. He’s not that much of a fool. Telling Dream he felt anything but desire for him would ruin any chance of them sleeping together in the future; but, then again, didn’t this do the exact same?)

“Get yourself together, you fucking idiot.” He murmurs, not fully understanding the panic coursing through his veins and why it makes him want to rip his hair out with his bare hands. .

The self-flagellation only makes him more upset, because another wave of tears hits him the moment the words leave his mouth. God, is this what he’s done to himself? Sobbing on the floor of a Transit Authority bathroom on a Friday night over a man he knows he can’t have anyway? This was just supposed to be physical, he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Dream. 

Why do none of his plans ever work out right?

There’s a knock on the door, which rattles against his back and startles him enough to yelp. “Are you okay?” The muffled voice of a woman comes to him, muted by the wood separating them. “I saw you sprint in there, sweetheart.”

Just be calm for a moment. Just for a moment. You can do this just for a moment. He takes a deep breath and a shaking exhale before he speaks. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had some bad seafood at dinner I think.” White lies are so, so easy, even to people who he has no reason to lie to. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” She laments, sincere in her apology. “Hope you feel better, and hope you don’t miss your train.”

“Thanks.” He calls back, desperately squeezing his eyes shut in a bid to hold off the next set of tears coming for him fast; he just needs to hold them off for a moment, until the stranger goes along her merry way and he can continue his nervous breakdown in unadulterated peace. 

He waits fifteen seconds, and then he can’t hold back anymore, forehead dropping to his knees as he lets the two months of built-up emotion finally break through to the physical world. George’s shoulders shake, his fist aches, and his throat is already scraped raw from the crying. 

Do you know what the worst part is? Through all of it, every single pitiful second he spends crouched there, alone in the flickering fluorescence of an oasis in a public desert, he can still smell the lingering traces of Dream’s cologne. 

---

 

Friday, 9:47 PM: wait george please come back. can we just talk about this?

Friday, 9:47 PM: i didn’t mean to make you upset 

Friday, 9:48 PM: this is just some kind of misunderstanding. please just tell me what i did wrong?

---

Friday, 10:53 PM: you don’t seem to want to talk to me and that’s fine! but just let me know you got home safe?

Friday, 10:53 PM: i just wanna make sure you’re okay

---

Friday, 10:58 PM: george?

---

Saturday, 2:12 AM: i obviously fucked something up but I don’t know what it is

Saturday, 2:13 AM: i’ve been trying to figure it out for the past like five hours but i can’t figure out what 

Saturday, 2:15 AM: *please* just help me- i can't and i won’t apologize for something i don’t even understand

Saturday, 2:15 AM: that’d be insincere 

---

Saturday, 5:25 AM: please talk to me 

Saturday, 7:02 AM: i want to fix this 

---

Saturday, 2:16 PM: aha i’ve sent way too many texts i KNOW that

Saturday, 2:22 PM: but i just want a chance to explain whatever it was that happened last night 

Saturday, 2:24 PM: just please tell me what’s wrong 

Saturday, 2:27 PM: i don’t understand

Saturday, 2:27 PM: *please* help me understand 

---

Saturday, 11:35 PM: is it about the choking?

Saturday, 11:35 PM: george listen i didn’t say no because i didn’t want to make you feel good but i was already pressing so fucking hard

Saturday, 11:36 PM: it might’ve been what you wanted, but i don’t know how i could love with myself if i hurt you

Saturday, 11:36 PM: *live

Saturday, 11:37 PM: i’m already pretty sure i was pressing hard enough to bruise on the surface, which is more than i usually like to do anyway, and i didn’t want to risk doing tjr same to your windpipe 

Saturday, 11:37 PM: *the

Saturday, 11:43 PM: is it not this? are you upset about something else?

---

Sunday, 3:18 AM: george, please

Sunday, 3:19 AM: i don’t know what you want me to do 

---

“Voicemail left at- six thirteen P.M- by- four oh seven, two one four, five three, three three.”

 

“Hey, uh. Hey George. Listen, you’ve been ignoring my messages. Well, I mean, assuming they’re sending. Maybe that’s why you’re not replying? I just- I don’t know. I mean I’ve had a little while to think about stuff and I’m still not—“

“Voicemail ended. To play again, please press—“

---

“Voicemail left at- six seventeen P.M.- by- four oh seven, two one four, five three, three three.”

 

“Fuck, I drove through that weird covered area on the north side- you know the one? I think it has some El track over it too. But anyway it just completely made my call fucking drop off the face of the planet. I, uh- god, what was I even saying before it hung up? I didn’t even realize it’d dropped for a solid sixty seconds too, which doesn’t help. 

“Well, guess whatever I said there is just gone, but I…"

A heavy sigh permeates space and time until it reaches George’s half-dead cell phone late at night. “Did I ruin everything? Look, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t really know what I’m saying sorry for, but whatever fuck-up I committed, I want you to know that I am sorry for it at the end of the day. I don’t care what it is: I just want to take it back. 

 

“We’ve always been so good at communicating, and I just… I don’t know. I thought things were still good, you know? Like, I still can’t figure out what happened on Friday, and I’ve been trying! I’ve thought over every single thing that I did, but I don’t think I crossed any of your boundaries. I hope I didn’t? I feel like you would’ve said something if I did. Anyway, I just— fuck, I’m rambling, aren’t? God, I meant for this to be at least kinda coherent, but I’m just failing miserably right now.

“Listen, I… I’m really sorry. Please, George: call me. Or- or text me, or something. Anything, please. I want to fix this. I don’t want to stop seeing you. Fuck, I—”

“Voicemail ended. To play again, please press two.”

An interruption as the time limit runs out. A beat. A moment of contemplative silence and then a decision. An electronic tone ringing out into the weary night of George’s flat. 

 

 “Fuck, I drove through that weird covered area on the…”

---

He ignores him for four days. He ignores Dream for ninety-six brutal, heart-rending hours because, well… 

He simply doesn’t know what else to do. 

Notes:

My written bread and butter is, and has been for almost a decade, angst. I originally didn't want there to be any conflict because there’s a reason Snapdragons is posted on an alt and not my main, but I am only a human being after all, and ADHD means I have fuck-all in the impulse control department lol. So, you got just a thin little slice tonight. Hope you enjoyed (in relative terms)!

As always, let me know what you think! If you want updates, general bullshit, and god knows what else come and follow me on twitter! Reviews always appreciated :)

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Chapter 10: This Place Is Best Shunned

Summary:

Maybe they can play chess like this: one dumpling for a truth; one bite of water chestnut cake for a confession that will never come; one spoon of congee for a barely-withheld insult said through gritted teeth. George hates this, even though he knows it’s all his fault.

Notes:

Brownie points if you recognize what the title of this chapter is referencing because there’s kind of a pun about it and it makes me giggle. Anyway, this is purely a plot chapter, so I’m afraid there won’t be much steamy content here. Hope you guys enjoy it regardless, and thanks for your patience :)

The usual: don't repost, don't share to CCs, and if their boundaries ever change, this will be taken down in accordance

A huge thank you to my little team of beta readers (all of whom can be found on my carrd!):
-snap
-blackberry/dnf_fics
-bri

George is just a little bit fucked.

He doesn’t mean that in the more fun definition of the word; no, he means that he is completely, totally, royally fucked — emotionally, at least. 

How on earth did he even get here: five shots into a bottle of gin? He’s been reveling in his own stupidity for days now, each passing night worse than the one before as his own guilt starts to eat at all of his jagged edges, only making them rougher and even more unseemly. He’s tearing and fraying at his seams, and he knows how to make it stop, but he isn’t sure if he can. 

The threadbare polyester of his couch is sticky against his bare back— shirt long abandoned as his entire body flushed from the dizzying buzz of alcohol— and borders on discomfort, but the turbulence inside of his head distracts him from the nuisance of physical sensation. A half-empty bottle of Hendrick’s limply hangs from his right hand, clear liquid swirling in an umber bottle just centimeters above the floor. A vacant shot glass precariously balances on his sternum, left fallow as of about five minutes ago so he could wallow in his own idiocy in relative peace. 

His phone’s been buzzing for four days now, Dream’s unadorned name in his contacts flashing on and off in some sick strobe that makes him want to empty the contents of his stomach. The voicemails were the worst because George could hear the desperation and the regret and the hurt dripping from his tongue, none of them deserved. 

He’d teared up last night over it all, and that was something George never did. Laying in bed, listening to Dream’s first voice mail for the hundredth time— trying to imagine what on earth he’d said after that, taken from him by the simple limitations of cellular satellites one hundred and sixty kilometers up— he’d suddenly been hit with a wave of emotion that he couldn’t bat back, no matter how hard he tried. 

One tear, then two, then a sob that had no business being as ugly as it was. He’d clamped a hand over his mouth, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop. 

This is fucking ridiculous, all things considered. They aren’t dating, they aren’t in love, and George isn’t the hurting party, anyway. He can excuse crying himself into exhaustion as a manifestation of the horrendous guilt which trickles down his spine at every instance of the day, but even handling the guilt itself feels like he’s proclaiming false victimhood. 

This is his fault— every bit of it, and no amount of floral liquor on his tongue can change that. Glittering aphrodisiacs in apothecary bottles and a tourist acquisition from Niagara Falls cannot undo the sins he’s committed. 

In the near distance, the soft noise of a cat’s chatter reaches his ears, and his head feels disjointed from his gaze as he turns it toward the small grey cat peering at him from around the legs of his coffee table, eyes as voidesque as always. George props himself up, the world swaying gently as his inner ear struggles to reconcile with his ocular nerves. “Hey, you. What is it?”

Cat— who he always told friends was actually named Catherine for the sake of saving face over the fact that he just could not settle on a name for her— stares back at him, chirping in response. 

“Oh, come here, then,” He sets down the gin bottle on the floor, making sure to cap the narrow neck so he wouldn’t wind up with alcohol soaking into his floorboards. “Come on up.”

She tilts her head, considering his offer for a moment, before carefully padding her way toward the sofa and gracefully launching herself upward. She lands right on his chest and spins in a circle three times before lying down exactly where the shot glass had been balanced only a minute before. She’s warm and soft, thrumming with quiet life against his dead, clammy skin. 

“Comfortable?” George asks, his dry voice crackling through the empty air of his flat. He’s a mess. 

Cat responds by snuggling into the divot of his sternum, a paw coming to swipe over her ears in a sweet display. 

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, sincere. “I haven’t been giving you very much attention the past few days. I’ll play with you tomorrow, okay? Get out your favorite little mouse, and I’ll open one of the special cans for dinner, I promise.”

She starts to purr in response, the vibrations rattling around his ribs until he’s full of them. “Your dad messed up, Cat,” George’s voice is tight and trembling. “And I don’t know how to fix it. I mean, I know the motions of an apology, but I don’t think it’d mean anything.”

His cat doesn’t understand human speech, so she just blinks slowly at him: a signal of trust but not one of comprehension. Oh well, he already looks insane enough talking to his resident feline: he might as well keep going. 

“I’m too fucking scared to respond to any of his texts or his phone calls because I know that, as soon as I do, he’ll just realize that he’s angry. And he should be!” George rushes to add. “He… he should be. But I don’t want to face that, I guess. I deserve it, and I- I know I do, but I can’t stand the thought of him being actually mad at me. It’s one thing when it’s punishment in bed, because it’s usually easy to see that it’s just part of an act, but this is- it’s real anger.

“And, sure, he just sounds hurt on the phone, but I know that won’t last long. I mean, the last time I fucked up a relationship, we fought until I was sure the neighbors could hear. I don’t- I can’t stand the thought of that happening again, especially not with someone like him,” His eyes are starting to sting, as much as he hates it. “I don’t know how to fix this. I just- how am I supposed to pretend that everything’s fine when it’s not? I want him in ways I’m not allowed to and it’s fucking killing me!”

He huffs, fighting the tightness that’s growing in his throat. “He was so, so fucking clear: we can’t even kiss. This isn’t romantic at all, and I was okay with that. Why can’t I just be okay with that again?”

George is met with large, unblinking eyes; Cat’s pupils almost swallow up her lemonade irises in the relative darkness of his living room, hardly illuminated by one table lamp meters away from the two of them. “You know, I’ve never asked anyone if your eyes are yellow or green,” He remarks, bringing up a woozy hand to stroke the soft fur between her ears before dropping it once again to trace the bruising on his throat (the bruising he’d forced Dream to cause). “Dream’s eyes are green: this really, really intense green. They look like gold to me.”

Sensing he’s talking about her, Cat turns those big eyes back toward him, and he suddenly feels like he’s under a microscope. 

“What do I do?” He whispers, tears pooling faster now than he can blink them back. “I don’t know how to make this right. Even if I did, I’m not sure that I can fix this.”

Salt crests over his cheeks, and he brings up the heel of a palm to furiously scrub it away as it falls. “God, I’m pathetic,” He laments, sniffling into the night. “I bet Dream would handle this so much fucking better if he were in my shoes. I feel like a teenager.”

The gin bottle on the floor calls for him again: forgetting is so much more preferable to this maelstrom of disappointment in himself, even though he knows this could only ever be a temporary salvo. But, he can’t bear to disturb the small curl of fuzz on his chest, so he simply looks at her instead.

She stares back, unyielding, and he feels himself start to crumble.

---

He should have gotten a bigger order of the shrimp and chive dumplings. That’s the conclusion he comes to as he sits on the train with his peace offering precariously balanced in his lap. This is earlier than he tended to make his way uptown to visit Dream, and the carriage is hopelessly crowded with commuters making their way home or heading out for evening plans. He’d been lucky that Chinatown was southward enough on the line that he’d been able to get a seat before the train had entered downtown proper and filled to bursting. 

All variety of people sway along with the great metal beast as it winds its way beneath the Loop: a small collective of excited children in blue and red coats occupy one corner, jostling the poor woman he can only assume is their mother; an old man with a briefcase calmly caps off the row of seats across from him, with smile lines etched deeply into his face— a sign of a life well-lived; consultants from the financial district debate with each other on the other end of the carriage over stock options and trading figures he doesn’t understand; a strikingly pale stranger with hair whose hue he cannot see stands directly in front of him, chattering with a friend in a language he doesn’t understand. 

The train jolts over a rough piece of track and, just as he clutches his takeout containers, the stranger stumbles and steps— hard— on George’s foot with the tall heel of their shoe. He muffles his yelp of pain with a cough, and looks up at them, mildly incensed. 

They just look at him with marginal indifference, as if they hadn’t even noticed. Their friend turns to them and speaks a string of words that sound strangely dissonant to English. 

“Did I step on your foot?” They ask, disinterested as their eyes trace over the flickering lights on the train’s map. 

George blinks at them, towering over him in light of his current position, and takes a moment to gather a response. “Wh- yeah, you did. Pretty hard.”

They shrug, hand slipping from the metal rung it had been attached to. “Well, this is my stop. Have a nice night.”

George watches them thread through the crowd of people with their even taller friend before disappearing through the metallic doors the moment before they closed. All in all, just a baffling encounter to add to an already difficult and anxiety-ridden day. It will pass in his memories, and he’ll never think of the stranger again once the throbbing pain in his toes fades.

He’s going to Dream’s: entirely unannounced and with little to no plan. He’s arriving with copious peace offerings in the form of quite frankly far too much dim sum, and hoping that the man will at least answer his door. If he does, George has no idea what exactly he’ll do. He knows that he should apologize, but two little words can’t erase the hurt that shot through Dream’s voice in each and every voicemail, and they can’t change the fact that he’d torn past a boundary in an attempt to distract himself.

(Distraction is a generous word— he’d meant to hurt himself, and to punish himself, for the things he felt: the taboo that he’d sworn not to indulge in, but had dove headfirst into anyway.)

George had thought about buying flowers, or chocolate, or all of the stupid clichés that he’d like to employ to make up for what he’s done, but then he’d mulled over all the romantic contexts that come with those items, and struck every single one from his list. He was left with dinner— nothing too fancy or formal or expensive— just dinner. Dream had mentioned his favorite restaurant late one night, a trivial throwaway amidst mundane pillow talk as George drowsed in a stew of oxytocin, and so he’d taken the train, walked the blocks, and spent the money to get him a meal that George could only pray he would be allowed to share. 

The train feels claustrophobic today, and not just because of the sheer volume of passengers. The plastic sinew and metal bones seem to press in on all sides, and the rushing of the rails is giving him a headache. He just wants to get out but, simultaneously, he’s terrified of what awaits him on the other side. George has always felt at ease in Dream’s apartment, almost as though it were a second home of sorts on the North Side. Each time he’d passed through that old, creaking threshold, he’d felt safe ; he knows that had been the point, but it was still remarkable, nonetheless. Now, though, that very place has been turned into a site of potential terror, and his heart is in his throat just thinking about it. Maybe, if he’s lucky, the wrought iron of Dream’s front gate will twist and swallow him whole before he even has a chance to press the buzzer. Then again, optimism has never been his strong suit. 

With his foot still aching from his earlier encounter with the stranger, he can only focus on the dull agony of the world around him, blending and tilting into one nauseating swirl of color as he feels the panic reach for him once more from the blacks of his subconscious. 

Breathe, George, breathe. 

He’ll do this. 

He’ll walk up to Dream’s gate.

He’ll do everything to keep his composure (and then some because, let’s be honest, he’s on the verge of breaking out into brackish quivers). 

He’ll plaster on a false smile and let half-truths in the form of burning apologies fall from his lips. 

He just hopes he even gets an answer at the door. 

At the end of the day, he knows that he dug this grave of his, and he’s standing in it now— both feet in, up to his knees in mire— and George also knows that he has to live with the consequences of that. His fault, his fault, his fault. 

Dream’s stop is soon, only a handful of moments away, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to stay glued to his seat and ride the line all the way to termination. Maybe he’ll sit on Jarvis Beach and eat the dim sum alone, watching the receding tide lap at the jetty and lament things lost. 

No, no, that’s silly. That’s ridiculous. Have some fucking courage, you idiot. Self-flagellation is easy at the moment, but falling back into that trap is the coward’s way out of this. If Dream wants to scream at him, if he wants to ignore him, if he just wants to hatefuck him and forget what had happened in its entirety: he obviously has preferences about what the outcome will be, but he knows it’s important for him to at least try. 

The soothing voice of the Transit Authority announcer crackles out through the intercom, bouncing between metal poles and plastic loops and overly-coiffed hair, to tell him that he needs to force himself to move before it’s too late. George tightens his hold on the plastic handle of the take-out bag, takes a steadying breath for courage, and stands just as the train comes to a jostling stop. 

The dull concrete platform has never before made him feel so ill. 

Whistling tones shatter his eardrums as the train finally pulls away, taking with it any chance he had of turning back (at least for the next seventeen minutes), and he knows that he’s sealed his fate. Before ascending, he takes a moment to steady himself, doing what he can to calm the jackrabbit heart currently lodged far too high in his throat for comfort. The bitter cold of the world and the artificial heat of the seasonal lamps clash in dry air, swirling around him and down barren tunnels as a thousand strangers wait for the moment their world ceases to exist beyond the darkness of the Underground. Despite the company, he feels alone. 

The street entrance is a whiplash of gales as it always is, funneling spare gusts of wind down into the earth just so that they can shear any traces of warmth from George’s cheeks. If this were a perfect world, he could walk into Dream’s flat and let his face be taken into a pair of warm hands, but he knows that ship can never sail, especially after his recent actions. 

Night falls so early this time of year, and he’s greeted by that strange half-gray sky of a frozen cityscape at night: never quite dark, but not quite light. He’s lived in metropoles all of his life, but he’s never quite gotten used to the idea of looking up and seeing an abyss, like the rest of the world does. He found it almost a strange comfort— there was no dark to be scared of here. 

He’s normally bordering on giddy as he makes the trek between the station and his destination, swishing past patches of black ice missed by CDOT as they did their practically daily rounds and making sure to tap past cracks in the sidewalk like he’s a bright-eyed seven-year-old again. Today, though, he feels unsteady and the soles of his boots have never before felt so thin. 

When the sign for Dream’s street comes into view, he can’t help but halt in his tracks, suddenly stuck to salted cement by a force far beyond him. He’s always thought street signs were just the ugliest color; he knows, logically, that they aren’t actually this hideous shade of yellow, but he’s going to complain anyway. 

Less than a block. He has less than a block before the inevitable end to this decision to try and reconcile comes to meet him. Maybe he’ll be lucky, and Dream just isn’t even home: his windows will be dark, and he won’t be able to see Patches peering down at the street below to watch the birds and the traffic go by. 

Actually, scratch that: he has no idea if that would be any less awful. Would delaying this make it better? Would it make it worse? Fuck, I’m hopeless. 

George watches his breath puff out into the frozen world around him, swirling white aerosol caught in between his lips like mock cigarette smoke. When he was a child, he would pretend that he was a dragon, guarding some long-forgotten treasure for so long that it had lost its memory of what the world was like. 

He could use that faux courage now, fighting dragons and whatnot: whatever childish occupations he’d had at that age. George supposes this is just some awful dragon to slay, in the end: the worry sits heavy in his gut, curled around his heart while its tail flicks between his ribs as if to tease him. Take courage, take courage, be something other than yellow-bellied (be something other than what you are). 

There is a street corner, and the glowing tones of a crosswalk sign. There is George, and there is the faint smell of chives, and there is the incomprehensible shadow of Dream’s building just beyond. He has one chance to not ruin this, and George can only hope that he can be enough. 

What was that Fred Astaire song? About simply walking? It was cheery— from some ancient Christmas movie or other—and it’s funny that he thinks of something like it now, but the amount of effort he has to put into each and every step feels just as monumental as whatever comically significant scene that song accompanied in the film:

 

If you want to change your direction,

If your time of life is at hand,

Well, don’t be the rule, be the exception.

A good way to start is to stand.

 

The tune plays out in his head, stuck in some retrograde gear of reminiscence, and his mouth tastes like peppermint and shitty powdered hot chocolate from two decades ago. Winter memory laps at him with parched flame, and he just… He wishes he could share that with someone. The bittersweet cherry knowledge that he can’t— at least not with the person he wants too— is on his taste buds just a moment later, as he finally comes to a stop in front of Dream’s buzzer. 

Bile. That’s all he can taste now. 

George wishes he had a script. If this life of his was a movie, he would simply know just what to say, and Dream would simply respond the exact right way. It would be a conversation without stutters or shouts or anything unseemly. He really fucking hates real life sometimes. It’s so much harder this way, not knowing what someone else is thinking. 

His hand is furiously trembling when he lifts it to the callbox, and he stays suspended in toffee indecision for what probably amounts to thirty seconds. Press it. Just fucking press it, George. It’s a button, it won’t bite. 

He presses down. There’s the pop of static and audible white noise, and his breathing is shaky when he finally speaks. “It’s me. I- I came with a peace offering,” He starts, and it feels like he’s stumbling around in the dark. “I get it if you don’t want to talk to me but just…” Trailing off feels honest, yet duplicitous all at once. “Please. Let me try and explain. I’m sorry.” He tacks on the simple words at the end, knowing that the time for a full apology can come later, when he’s not trembling from everything but the cold on the sidewalk. 

There isn’t any feedback for a long time. He can see that Dream’s lights are on— he’s home, no doubt about it— but there’s no silhouette passing in front of the windows. The silence is almost unbearable and, for those long, long moments, he thinks he understands just how Dream has felt for the past four days. 

He finally gets a response, and it’s not from his phone or the callbox; rather, it’s from the gate, whose lock audibly clicks open, telling George that he can come in. He wants to be embarrassed at just how quickly he scrambles for the handle, but emotions like chagrin are foreign to him in this moment as his synapses fill up with every other possible sensation. Dream’s letting him in. He’s not talking to him yet, but he’s at least giving him a chance to get his foot in the door. That’s something. That has to be something , right?

George practically takes the stairs two at a time, rendering him almost out of breath when he finally reaches the peeled-paint door jam that leads to Dream. His terror seizes him again, and he’s never been so frightened of a knock in his life. The woodgrain seems to come alive and swirl before his eyes, parting beneath where his closed fist hovers. Just knock. Just knock. Just knock. Just— 

It’s quiet, barely noticeable in the grand scheme of things. Three quick taps, and then silence. George could swear that his heart stops beating in the seconds in between while he awaits any kind of response. George could swear that time stops, too, dragging on far longer than it has any business doing so. Once it finally resumes, though, it still seems to move at quarter-speed as he watches the door swing open and he’s met with… 

God, he’s still not prepared for this. 

“I-I brought dinner,” He blurts out, trying to get the words into the ether before he loses any semblance of composure. “From your favorite dim sum place. I don’t- I know it’s kind of shallow, at the end of the day, but I just- I- fuck .” Speech feels suddenly foreign on his tongue, and he can’t meet Dream’s eyes.

“That’s fine,” Dream responds, and his voice is quiet, almost edging into monotone, as he steps aside to open the door wider. “You can just put it down on the table.” 

George nods, because talking doesn’t seem to be his strong suit at the moment, and it takes effort to step past the threshold. He’s always felt at peace crossing that door jam, but now it only makes the turbulence in his gut peak and swirl, and he feels sick. 

Dream’s flat looks just as it always does: a strange, ineffable sense of home seeping from every seam in the upholstery and joint in the furniture. His stove light has burnt out since George was here last, and it’s clear from the handful of pellets scattered around the floor that he’s only just fed Patches before his unannounced arrival. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dream asks, hanging back in the entryway, and George can feel the other’s eyes on the back of his head as he cautiously regards him. His voice is tight and reveals nothing; it’s so unlike him that it’s practically foreign. 

He sets the take-out bag down on the wooden top of Dream’s dining table, plastic emblazoned with text and a yellow smile, and debates whether or not he should turn around to respond. He ultimately decides against it, speaking quietly to the barren half of the room. “I- I didn’t think you’d let me come.”

Dream remains silent, but he can hear him shuffle into his kitchen, opening cabinets to produce the clank of porcelain and ceramic. “Why did you think that?” His query is unnervingly calm, and he struggles to sense the turbulence beneath its placid surface, even though George knows that it’s there. 

He tenses, and George mulls over his possible responses as his tongue ties into knots. “Well, I mean…” Trailing off is natural and seems like the only possibility as he fights for his words. “I didn’t- I didn’t exactly leave you on good terms.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dream keeps on asking him questions. He’s only asking him questions, and it’s fucking unnerving. 

“You know what it means.” He makes an effort to keep his voice steady, because he doesn’t want to have to say it: to own up to his trespasses. George wants to snap at him, but he knows getting caught up in his emotions was the reason they were here in the first place. 

Dream exhales forcefully, a puff of air making a soft noise in the relative silence of his flat. “If you actually want to come here and talk to me, I need you to actually talk, George,” He says, even and emphatic. He’s clearly trying to approach this clinically, and George can’t tell if that’s better or worse. “I haven’t heard from you in four days. Four whole days! I’m not talking if you don’t.”

It stings, but Dream is right. His fingers fiddle with the edge of the table, picking at the grain with stubby fingernails— chewed raw out of an ancient bad habit his mother had attempted to break since he was approximately age five. George steels himself and turns to walk toward Dream, still not able to meet his intense gaze as he regards his approach. His posture is tense: gone is the relaxed, lanky demeanor he’s used to expecting from him. Shoulders have become a taut line, his spine is awkwardly frozen in a half-slumped curve, and his eyes alternate between being stuck to the floor and being stuck to George. 

He enters Dream’s proximity and feels a strange mix of hostility and fear swirl in the pit of his stomach. Not able to bear getting any closer, he leans against the counter opposite him, leaving a healthy meter between them. “I fucked up, okay? I acknowledge that,” George starts, gnawing on the insides of his cheeks in an attempt to abate the panic rising inside of him that threatens to choke. “I pushed too far and I obviously wasn’t in the right place for that, and I just- Look, I’m sorry.”

Dream is a crooked line against his kitchen island, golden hair dusting his forehead and casting shadows onto cheekbones brushed by long eyelashes. He’s entirely unreadable, but whenever George dares to flick his eyes up, he can tell that he’s exhausted. Whether that’s physical, mental, or both, he can’t tell. “What the fuck was that, George?” He’s back to questions. “First, it was the fleeing, because we both know you didn’t have some fucking meeting; then it was whatever last weekend was. What’s going on? Do you not want to do this anymore?”

“No!” He scrambles, and he acts instinctively, finally intruding into Dream’s bubble as he stands in front of him. “I don’t want to stop. I don’t, really.”

Dream’s wary, having him so close again without the expectation of that approach, and he stiffens up a bit. 

“What can I do to prove that to you?” George pleads, suddenly pressing forward so that his hands can brush Dream’s hips where they rest against the counter’s edge. “Can I prove it to you?”

Dream does not react well to his bolder action, and he collapses in on himself at first in an attempt to get away before settling on bringing his broad hands up to gesture George out of his personal space. He would never actually shove him, but he’s very clearly telling him to get out , shoulders scrunched up and face downturned in displeasure as he desperately pushes at the air with his hands. “No. No, ” He reaffirms, displeasure contorting into anger. “Fucking cut it out . You’re not just gonna gloss over this with a blowjob. You don’t get to get out of this, George.”

Dream’s body language is screaming to get away, hands shaking, and so he does: he backs off immediately, retreating to the far end of the kitchen as he watches Dream visually collect himself. 

When he speaks again, his eyebrows are still drawn together in frustration. “God, I can’t believe you just did that,” Dream scoffs, wrapping his arms around his own waist and shaking his head in disapproval. “Did you seriously think you could just come over on a Tuesday night, placate me with dinner and your body, and expect me to forget?” The monotony has fled from his voice, and his tone positively seethes . 

“I- I didn’t—” George stammers, face flooding with shame as his heart drops to the floor. “This wasn’t, like, planned, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing here or what to do now that I am.”

“Then why did you come, George?” Dream pushes, and even though he still can’t meet his eyes, George can feel them burn into his skull. “I can—” He falters, voice cracking for a moment. “I can see the bruises on your throat. Why are you here?”

George feels like a doe fawning in the neon fluorescence of glaring headlights. His eyes slide shut and he purses his lips. Fuck. “I should’ve worn a higher collar, I guess.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to make, I’m trying to- fuck’s sake,” He’s growing more emotive by the second, exasperatedly shaking his head and digging pastel canines into his bottom lip. “You can’t just do this , George: run away without explaining, drop off of the face of the earth for days, then just pretend like this is an easy fix. Do you even care about how I feel?"

That stings. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, but the vicious sharpness in that last question makes him burn with shame. “I- I am sorry. I am.”

Dream laughs, but it’s a brittle, dry rasp rather than the endearing wheezes and tones he’d become accustomed to hearing from when they lay in bed and George cracked terrible, terrible jokes at two o’clock in the morning. “For what, George? Anyone can say the words, but not everyone can mean them.” 

He knows that he’s trembling, and his panic has caught up with him. Swallowing his own spit is a challenge, and he’s on the verge of sprinting out of the front door. He knows he has to face the consequences of his own actions, but he also knows he can’t be entirely honest: he needs to walk a tightrope above an abyss, and he isn’t sure exactly how he’s meant to not tip off into the unending blackness below. “Can we just- can we please sit down? The food’s going to get cold,” He requests, hoping he can at least plant himself before his knees give out on him. “I’ll explain, and I’ll apologize properly, but I at least want you to get the material part of my apology too.”

Dream eyes him warily, considering him for several painfully long moments, before he finally acquiesces. “Fine. Did you get chopsticks?”

He nods, wandering back to the table and doing his best to lay out the containers in an orderly manner, as though nothing was amiss: like this was a normal night for a normal couple, enjoying take-out for dinner as they made light-hearted japes and played footsie beneath the table as their dumpling supply started to run low. George wants that more than he can even say, but instead he’s left adrift in a terrifyingly empty sea of confusion and longing, Dream hardly there with him anymore. 

The last time he’d had a proper meal here, Dream had pulled out his chair with an overly dramatic flourish, gestures brimming with mock chivalry as he waited for George to sit down and gently nudge his chair back in, teasingly petting his hair before he left to find his own seat. This time, he sits down with little fanfare and leaves George to make his way around to the other side of the table to settle in his own creaking chair. 

George looks at the scene before him. Set designers had carefully laid out plastic containers on maple grain, delicately balancing their placements so that they looked perfectly haphazard: the right balance of randomness and intent. The gaffer chose to make the pendant light above them shine just a little too brightly, glaring on polyethylene and washing out George’s own skin until he bordered on the color of bleached eggshell. A greensman had even chosen a small vase of vibrant hyacinth (too strange to be blue- they must be purple) to perch in between them, just slightly off-center. They sit across from each other in a carefully choreographed dance of difficult body language that makes him feel dizzy. He imagines that the cinematographer would pose the cameras above them, leaving audience members with a striking array of perspective askew. George’s entire world feels strange right now, and he wishes he could view himself in the third person just this once to see how foreign the world is to him in this stilted moment of tumult. 

Dream pops open a container, and goes to pluck the contents from it, not wasting time. “What are you sorry for, George?” He asks again, eyes glued to what looks like siu mai as he negotiates with his chosen piece. 

He pulls his own chopsticks from their paper sleeve, emblazoned in characters he doesn’t understand, and snaps them in half at the base, leaving him with splintered ends that will inevitably prick him. “I couldn’t- I wasn’t in the right headspace last time.”

“To say the least.” Dream interjects, nonchalant, as he dips the siu mai in soy sauce. 

“To say the least,” He affirms, almost nauseous as he opens up the rice porridge he’d ordered. “And I made it your problem. You didn’t deserve to be put in that kind of spot. I’m sorry for that.”

Dream reaches for another container, popping open the lid. Now he’s the one who refuses to even look in George’s direction. “What kind of a spot did you put me in?”

“You know what I—”

“Be specific, George,” Dream interrupts, cutting him off before he can attempt to wiggle his way out of the question. “Do you even know how that felt for me? Being left like that, with you in that state?” 

Shame trickles into that guilt that’s been eating him up from the inside out for days now, and the preserved fish in his congee suddenly feels rancid on his tongue. “I tried to get you to break your boundaries,” George clarifies, the words disgusting in his mouth. “I forced you to be too rough with me.”

Dream scoffs. “You didn’t try to get me to just be ‘too rough’ with you,” Chopsticks still curled under his fingers, he makes air quotes to emphasize his point. “You had me hurt you , George. Like, actually injure you. You wanted me to cause you harm. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on with you, but you can’t do that to me.”

“I know,” He acknowledges. “I know. It was beyond wrong of me to do that, and I’m sorry.”

Silence descends for a heavy ream of seconds, and the air here has never felt more suffocating. Maybe they can play chess like this: one dumpling for a truth; one bite of water chestnut cake for a confession that will never come; one spoon of congee for a barely-withheld insult said through gritted teeth. George hates this, even though he knows it’s all his fault. He’s being steeped in acid, and he’s the only one to blame. He’d almost rather have Dream scream at him: this firm self-control is some strange brand of terrifying. 

“I can’t be complicit in your self-harm, George,” He reasserts, and the term makes him flinch. “I’m not here just to satisfy your needs: I’m a human being, too, you know.”

“I- I wasn’t—” George tries to find his words, but that hideous term echoes in his brain. “I didn’t mean to hurt myself.”

Dream looks up to him at last, incredulous and with eyebrows scrunched up in a way he would find endearing in any other situation. “Then what the fuck were you trying to do?” 

How honest can I be without ruining everything? How much can I hide without ruining everything? It’s a delicate, delicate balance. 

“Distraction.”

“What?"

“I was trying to distract myself,” George clarifies. It’s a truth. “It’s just that I- all of this, it confuses me.” Less of a truth, but it’s not yet a lie.

The object of his selfish desire stares off into the ether for a few moments, trying to tease out meaning from the strange, warped strands of his sentences. “I thought we’d agreed on all of this,” He starts, puzzled. “If something wasn’t clear, we were supposed to talk about it; and that went for both of us. What’s exactly confusing?”

“It’s—” George tries to break in, but Dream simply finishes his train of thought, without acknowledging the attempted interruption. 

“And why do you need to hurt yourself for being confused? Do you get why I’m confused here?” They’re perfectly reasonable questions, in the end, and he knows they’re straightforward enough to be completely inescapable. 

George stares at a pork bun, knowing that he has to tread carefully from now on. The things he says in the span of this conversation can either salvage this mess of a situation, or can nail his own coffin shut. “I’ve been in friends-with-benefits types of arrangements before,” He starts, making sure to order his thoughts meticulously before they’re formed into existence by his lips. “You know, I understand the mechanics of this. It’s just like any of the others, even if it’s a little more… intense,” He looks up to Dream for approval, but he’s met again with that painfully blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. “I know that it’s just sex, and that’s the only box I’m supposed to keep thoughts about this in. And I know how to do that! This isn’t my first time just hooking up with someone regularly without romance getting involved.” Careful. “But every single other time, they’re either fallen apart or we ended up dating before immediately breaking up, and I just don’t understand how to cope with that here, because I don’t want this to end. 

“I want to keep sleeping with you because no one has ever made me feel like this. But, I’m confused. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with myself. It’s been a little over two months at this point, and it feels weird that nothing has really gone wrong yet. I just don’t know how to handle it, and I thought that distraction and—”

“George, slow down,” He butts in, holding out a hand to softly gesture for him to stop. “You’re speaking a thousand miles a minute. Take a breath.”

He does as he was told, and takes in a shaky inhale, holds it in the panicking branches of his lungs, and lets it fall from his mouth, just as rickety. “I thought that distracting myself would be the easiest way to not think about it. I thought that if you were crueler, I’d remember why we started all of this in the first place, and I’d feel comfortable in it again.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Dream sets down his chopsticks before folding those broad, sinful hands together on the tabletop. “By this point in time in a relationship like this, every time you’ve slept with a friend, things fall apart. You’re scared that’ll happen here, so you’re acting out.”

George squeezes his eyes shut. “It sounds so stupid when you say it like that.”

The other sighs, and he hears his chair creak as he shifts weight, even though George is still looking at eigengrau splashed with white. “What were the two boundaries I gave you when we started this whole thing?”

He looks up at him, and Dream is simply working his way through a very, very full dumpling. “You, uh- you said that you wouldn’t break skin and that we…” That I can’t do the one thing I want to do more than I’ve ever wanted to do before in my entire life. “That we can’t kiss.”

“That’s right,” Dream chimes in, taking a moment to swallow his dinner before continuing. “The reason for the first one should be pretty easy to see, right?”

“I know,” He says, dumb and out of excuses. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hurt me like that. It was cruel of me and—”

“No shit,” There’s a snarl on his tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “It was really cruel of you, George. Can you even begin to imagine how I felt?”

“I—”

“You just left me there,” It seems like Dream is finally starting to move past that alarming complacency, and a pot of emotions that had been stewing for four days was finally boiling over. “Out of nowhere, you wanted me to hurt you, and you were so goddamn adamant about it. I kept giving you every chance to back out, and you just kept insisting and insisting and insisting; and then when I had the audacity to tell you that I wasn’t gonna be party to that anymore, when I had the audacity to assert a boundary— for the first time, I might add. You know, George—”

“Listen, I’m so—”

“No, I’m finishing this,” He immediately shuts down George’s attempt to insert himself. “I’ve been here, on the receiving end of complete and total radio silence, sitting in this apartment and trying to figure out how I fucked up. I blamed myself this entire time, and now you’re telling me that the reason you pulled this is because of your own insecurities? Listen,” Dream sucks down a hungry breath, the speed of his words leaving him starved of oxygen. His voice isn’t raised, but his vision is clearly edged in red. “I finally tell you that I need to back away from something, and what do you do? You safeword and leave. You make me feel like it’s my fault: that I chased you away because I couldn’t be good enough for what you need. Put yourself in my shoes for a minute, George.

“How else was I supposed to feel after that? It felt like shit; I felt so guilty and I was terrified that I’d ruined this. We have something good here, George!” He exclaims, hands finally begin to animatedly move in tandem with his words. “I’ve never clicked with a sub like this. Everything’s always been so easy between us, and I wanted to keep feeling that. I loved that we never made mistakes, and you always could read me, and you were so open and patient when we tried things out, even if you were nervous. It’s never been this easy for me to bond with a partner, and then I wind up feeling like I ruined everything. 

“And, now? Now, you tell me you were scared of this falling apart, so you went ahead and just accelerated the process? You ran away so I couldn’t push you away? Did it seriously never occur to you that pushing me away isn’t any better?” His voice is so tight that George worries he’s going to shred his vocal cords soon. It’s fraught with emotion and pain and that unique tone that one can only take on when everything comes pouring out. “And I just— Jesus Christ, I hate being angry. It makes me feel like my fucking father.”

Dream takes a moment to catch his breath, his thoughts clearly far outpacing the speed of his tongue. He won’t look at George again, clearly trying to not provoke himself. “I need you to fucking talk to me, George,” His voice drops back into the realm of the calm; he was clearly rattled by his own words. “I can’t read your mind. If you’re scared about something, don’t tell me like this. Please.” Dream sounds like he’s pleading with him, the fraught strand of desperation edging into his tone. If he strains, he almost swears that he can hear desperately-withheld tears there, too.

He’s quiet for a few heavy seconds, trying to assemble his own response. He doesn’t know if there’s any way that an apology could ever mean anything at this point, because Dream is right: he’d put him in a horrible position that only had one possible emotional consequence for him. “I doubt just saying it will do anything, but I’m sorry , Dream,” George puts in every ounce of sincerity that he can summon, which is thankfully a considerable amount. He might struggle with telling Dream the whole truth, but none of his regret was a lie. None of it. “The way I felt, it… it wasn’t an excuse for me to do that to you. You’re right: I should’ve just talked to you, been mature. I’m older than you, for god’s sake, and I acted like a child. I was selfish.”

“I don’t want you to just insult yourself,” His words quiver, a delicate interruption that threatens to crack the unbearable distance between them. “That’s not what I was trying to say. I just want you to get how I felt.” 

George slumps, his dinner forgotten at his place setting. “I know. I’m sorry. I just- it’s the easiest thing for me to do, and I’m scared right now.”

“Why’re you scared?” Dream prods.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” He tries, but that’s not quite it. He doesn’t want to lie if he can help it. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Dream softly sighs. “So you really thought this would avoid that?”

“I’m not- I didn’t—” George can’t find the words he wants, because he knows that he isn’t behaving logically. “I know that what I did doesn’t make sense. I get that I didn’t act rationally, but that was just… it was the easier option in whatever was going on in my mind, even if it was stupid.”

That thick silence settles over them again, and it makes the air difficult to breathe. George would rather be anywhere else on the planet. “What did you think would happen? If you didn’t run away, or hurt yourself, or do whatever this was? You said things always fell apart, but I don’t really know what that means.”

Careful. “I’m not sure I know how to do this,” He starts, rolling each word around his mouth to feel its weight before he speaks it. “I’ve never been with someone for this long without… without feelings getting involved. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself right now.” There. That’s enough, but it’s not too much. Balance. 

Dream slowly nods, seeming to understand a bit more now what he’d been trying to flee that night. He lets out a shaky breath, before launching into his next flow of words. “What was my second boundary? After not breaking skin.”

It’s all too easy to recall, because it’s been haunting his every waking moment for weeks now. I want to kiss you, I want to kiss you, I want to press my lips to yours and— “You won’t kiss me.”

“Did you ever think about why I set that?” He continues, and George realizes, for the first time, that he’d never questioned why. 

He shakes his head. 

“I get your confusion.” Dream admits, shifting in his seat. He seems hesitant, like he’s debating whether or not to say something. What that thought is, George is almost scared to know. “I don’t have a lot of… arrangements that last this long. Most are shorter, like you’ve said: they have short lifespans. But I did have one that went really long, like this.”

He swallows awkwardly, dinner long forgotten as his eyebrows furrow and unfurrow, while his lips try to shape different phantom words. “We’d met at a community event. She wasn’t new to it, and I’d been doing it for a little while at that point, too. It wasn’t smooth in the beginning, not like this,” Dream laughs, soft and awkward. “We had a lot of bumps, but it got better; we got better. And, you know, we were good together. She wasn’t the kinkiest, but we both always left satisfied.

“We would kiss, because that’s just what I’d always done with these arrangements. It was never an issue: I mean, it’s just sex, after all. And that was nice, especially with aftercare and taking care of her once we’d finish a scene. It was just another part of what we did.” Dream pauses for a moment, mouth briefly puckering, as if recalling something bitter. “But, the longer it went on, the more I realized how much that meant. Like I’ve said, sex is sex. I think you can do that without emotions getting in the way, but there’s just… there’s something different when you press your lips to someone else’s. It’s too intimate, and I just- I couldn’t—”

He swipes a hand down his tired face, sighing as though he’s admonishing himself. “I got too attached,” Dream then laughs , threadbare and humiliated. “I fell for her, and I knew better, I really did; but, every single time she came over, I couldn’t stop myself from wanting more. I wanted her in ways that I knew I couldn’t have her.” 

“What happened?” George pipes in, soft and delicate. He can’t help the way that his heart flutters in his chest as Dream says the exact same words that he’s been thinking for so long. He understands. 

There’s a watery smile that rings with nothing but bittersweet pain. “I told her,” He answers, dripping with remorse. “I told her how I felt. I told her that I- that I wanted more out of this. We were in bed one night, and she just looked so fucking beautiful, and I couldn’t help myself anymore,” Another laugh, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “She told me to give me her sweater, she got out of bed, and I never saw her again.”

George’s mouth dries out, and the silence around them goes from uncomfortable to suffocating. “Just- just like that?”

“Just like that,” He confirms, and anger creeps into the strange hollows of his expression. “So I made that a rule for me. Getting attached just led to so much pain. So, I get what you mean when you say you’re scared of things going on this long. I don’t- I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head, or in your heart, and you still hurt me, but just know that I can at least understand why you did what you did.”

George nods slowly, thankful for common ground, even if it comes from a painful event. “I’m sorry she did that to you. You didn’t deserve that, and you—” He swallows the lump in his throat. “And you didn’t deserve what I did to you either.”

They eat in quiet for a few minutes, neither of them brave enough to say anything in the wake of such an emotional whiplash of a conversation. George himself is reeling, not sure what to think of Dream’s revelation. Is it just confirming his worst fears: that Dream would hate him for his feelings? Will it keep him in check, now that he knows that Dream himself has been burned over that terrible, messy thing they all call emotions? George has no idea how to respond, and he’s almost scared to speak again. 

“I wasn’t planning on telling you that,” Dream is back to an open, raw nerve. He’s baring so much of himself, and his voice sounds stripped down to its barest elements. “I’m sorry, you don’t need my baggage. But, I just wanted to say that I get that this stuff can be difficult. That’s why we need to talk about shit, instead of you making me bruise your fucking throat.”

George flushes at that, ashamed, as he feels the remnants of Dream’s fingerprints glow against his neck, peeking above his collar for the world to see (Dream is his world now). “You’re not the one who needs to say you’re sorry. This is entirely on me,” He has to force his words out. “Did I ruin everything?”

Dream sighs, falling back in his chair and tipping his head back as he contemplates. The action bares the long column of his throat to George, unshaved stubble wrapping around his jaw until it just brushes his Adam’s apple. Even in the midst of turmoil, he still looks so beautiful. “I think that’s up to you at this point,” He responds, ambiguous. “I can’t do this if you keep acting the way you have been. If you’re willing to figure out your shit, then we can talk about things going back to the way they were. If you aren’t okay doing that, then I can’t do this anymore.”

His last sentence chills George, and he feels fear trickle down his spine. He’s terrified of falling further and deeper for Dream— deep enough to drown— but he doesn’t know if he can stand losing him. 

At least not yet.

“I don’t want to stop seeing you.” Truth. “I can sort myself out, I promise.” Lie. 

Dream goes back to his plate, poking at something George can’t see, hidden by the vase of flowers between them. “Will you tell me why you made me hurt you?”

His mouth is dry. He swears his heart stops beating. He feels sick, and his brow suddenly feels damper than it was just a few seconds ago. “Are you asking me to tell you if I have feelings for you?”

“No,” He responds immediately. The speed of it almost startles George. “I don’t need— or want, really— to know everything you’re thinking, especially if you don’t want to tell me in the first place. I’m asking you to tell me why you thought it was the right choice. I mean, I- I care about you, George,” He’s bleeding sincerity again, voice crackling under the strain. “Why did you think you had to do that? And why did you want me to harm you like that?”

Dream is staring at him with those dark, golden eyes again, and he feels like he’s shrinking under his gaze. It’s intense and direct and, just like always, he’s being peeled back to his bone marrow without Dream even having to try. “I thought if- if you were cruel to me, I could remember why we started this whole thing in the first place. If I could just remember that, then maybe I could stop panicking so much about things falling apart,” Truth. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to react after being with someone for this long without actually being with you, you know? I’m so used to wanting more.” Lie. 

“I can be cruel without actually harming you,” Dream says, surprising gentility creeping into the air. “And if you need to talk things through, just fucking tell me, George. This isn’t any different from the rest of our arrangement: it only works when we talk to each other. That’s why, when I tell you I can’t do something, you need to listen to me too.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out hardly louder than a whisper, but George hopes that he can hear the brutal honesty that sloshes between the diphthongs of those two little words. He slumps, defeated, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

Now would be a good time for a soundtrack to be piped in, but he’s just met with the roaring of blood in his own ears. He feels the bronchioles in his lungs bloom with every breath before they collapse once he runs out. He’s matched by Dream’s equally even breathing across the table as the two of them contemplate how to continue this strange, terrifying conversation without shattering what ties them together. 

“I won’t do this again. I- I know that I was stupid, and I hurt you, and I won’t ever forgive myself for that,” George confesses, and he means it. Now that he’s faced with the consequences of how he’d treated Dream, he knows that he can’t do this again. He’s only one straw away from breaking everything they have. “But I want to ask you to give me another chance. Please.” 

I can’t lose you. 

George can’t help it when he feels his eyes start to burn. Bubbling humiliation rises hot inside of him, and he does everything in his power to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks. “Please, give me another chance.”

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Give me your hand.” Dream repeats, and he splays his open hand atop the dining table, the ridges of his palm stand out in the glaring pendant light. 

George looks at him, confused, as he feels his eyes continue to water. He lifts a pale hand, clad in an old sweatshirt, to meet his, and he’s not blind to the way his fingers tremble before he lays his palm against its mirror. Dream closes long fingers over his knuckles and squeezes just once, lightly.

“I want to try again.” He states and, although George can feel him looking at him, his own eyes linger where their fingers lace together. “But you have to keep talking to me. If it looks like, even for a second, you’re going to run again, I have to step away. I can’t put myself through this again. You have no idea how fucking guilty I felt.” 

Dream’s voice shatters, and George can’t stop it when salt drips, hot and brutal, down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The blond manages to keep himself collected while George sniffles his way through another apology. “And I know you like it, but I won’t choke you again.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the excuses die on his tongue. “That’s… fair. That’s fair. I couldn’t ask you to do that again.”

A thumb traces over his knuckles, but Dream doesn’t go to dry his tears like he always does. That’s fair, too. “Not tonight. This is too much tonight. I need time.”

He goes to rub his sleeve against his cheekbones, catching the few tears that hadn’t trailed all the way down until they could curl under his jaw. “Of- of course. Take as much time as you need. I’m just happy you even want to see my face again.”

“You have a lovely face, does it really surprise you?” Dream jokes, dramatically breaking the heavy atmosphere and leaving him blinking, dumbfounded, for almost fifteen seconds. 

Finally, he cracks, and his crying turns to stuttering laughter which pierces the air and punctures the painful film which had been building up between him and Dream. The other eventually joins him, wheezing softly as he forces a smile. “I appreciate you being so, like, open about all of this,” George murmurs. “There was no reason for you to tell me all of this stuff tonight, or to hear me out, or to even see me. So, I just wanted to say thanks for that. You would’ve been in the right if you slammed the door in my supposedly lovely face.”

Dream finally withdraws his hand now that he’s gotten George to stop crying, and folds his hands in his lap, hiding them from view. Even though he can’t see them, George can tell that he’s fiddling with his fingers: a nervous habit he’d noticed weeks ago. He noticed a lot of Dream’s other fidgety impulses, but they were particularly bad tonight, a clear manifestation of his anxiety. “It would be a lie for me to say that this is behind us,” Dream begins, cautious. “I’m still really uneasy right now.”

“And I don’t blame you for that.” George won’t. He can’t. 

“But I still want you. I might not’ve meant to be this open tonight, but I would never have just shut you out,” Dream explains, eyes darting around the room as his leg bounces beneath the table (George can’t see it, but the slight shake of water in their glasses tells him what he needs to know). “Please don’t shut me out.” Out of everything he’s said tonight— his fraught voice that had just edged into yelling, the words he tripped over as he struggled to keep up with his thoughts, the cold distance he’d had at the start— these words are the most fragile. He sounds so close to fracture that it makes George’s own ribs split. 

George nods, eyes slipping shut as he bathes in his own incompetence. George hurt him, and he did it because he was selfish: because he couldn’t bear to realize that this arrangement didn’t just involve him. “I won’t shut you out again. I promise, Dream. I promise.”

At this point, the cinematographed scene would close, moving the story on to another piece of the plot. But, instead, they’re left in the strange in between they’re forced to inhabit while the moments decay and renew, over and over and over again, until he should feel dizzy. They don’t get an easy cut to the next bits of dialogue so that they remain a coherent narrative; but, life isn’t a coherent narrative. They’re fragmented and attempting to gather their pieces in barren hands. The glass slices their fingers but, somehow, they persist. They can’t be the way they were before George did what he did— no, they will always bear the gauging scars from this event— but they can try to put themselves back together in that strange puzzle that makes up the two of them, entwined together in bed in some sensual tableau. 

“When do you want me to leave?” George finally pipes up. It was already late when he’d arrived, and he knows that trying to crawl into Dream’s bed, even just to rest, is pushing far too much. 

“How about we finish dinner and clean up?” He proposes, cautious but still gentle. “Is that okay?”

He nods, picking up his long-discarded chopsticks only to be immediately pricked by a splinter at the ends. “Son of a—”

“You okay?”

George plucks the shard of wood from the side of his thumb. “Yeah, I’m fine. I guess my chopsticks are out to get me.”

The man across the table snorts dismissively, rolling his eyes and picking up his own utensils again to resume his dinner. 

The rest of the night is remarkably uneventful, by both a normal definition, and on the heels of the blistering conversation they’d exchanged earlier. They make small talk, chatting about work and a book Dream had read before being interrupted by Patches, loudly complaining that she had not been given a portion of Dream’s dim sum. George can’t help the fondness that bubbles up in his chest as he watches him carefully pluck pieces of shrimp from an unwrapped dumpling to feed to her, cooing and softly chattering with her as she evaluates the taste and texture of the seafood. He’s a painfully sweet man, and he still makes George’s chest ache, but he can feel the pieces of a wall between his brain and his heart slowly being grouted into place. If he wants to live in agony, he has to at least keep it to himself.

They do the dishes in further quiet: Dream washes, and he dries. George squishes the plastic containers into Dream’s bin, fighting with water bottles and paper towels from the drying. It’s domestic and steady; if he doesn’t think hard enough, they’re just two normal people existing, together. 

Once it’s all said and done, he knows that he has to leave: that he needs to put on his coat and slip on his gloves. Retreat through Dream’s doorway is a necessity, but he still feels an awful sense of uneasiness as he starts to leave. 

“I’ll walk you down.” Dream interjects his procession of clothing as he fixes his hat. 

“Oh, you don’t have to,” He tries to make excuses, because he’s not sure what sort of emotion he’s feeling right now. “I’ll be fine.”

Dream just gently pushes back, doubling down on his initial assertion. “I want to. Please, let me?”

When he asks like that, hope and optimism fringing into his voice, how can he say no? “Alright. That’s fine.”

The taller man slips on a pair of slippers— the strange indoor-outdoor hybrid kind with hard rubber soles— and waits for him to finish adjusting. “Your ears are still exposed, George.” He almost laughs as he says it, instinctually reaching out to pull the wool further down. 

His knuckles brush against George’s skin as he does it, and he feels as though he’s been permanently frozen to the floor. His face heats, and the warmth radiating from Dream’s hands suddenly feels like all too much. The blond immediately retreats, snapping back his hands as though he’s been burnt. 

“I- I’m sorry,” He rushes to say. “I didn’t mean- I shouldn’t have done that.”

Dream has touched him everywhere it was possible to touch a human being, every single torturous, rapturous place. Brushing his fingers against his jaw and his cheeks shouldn’t make him feel anything at this point, but Dream reacts like he’s never felt his skin underhand before. It’s remarkably uncharacteristic of him, and the stiffness of his shoulders doesn’t do anything to explain his behavior. He looks almost scared, and George doesn’t understand why. 

“Hey, it’s fine,” He tries to reassure, smiling softly up at him. “You’ve touched me before. It’s- it’s okay. Really.”

Dream mutters some sort of affirmation that’s mostly lost to the whine of his radiators, and then he’s opening the door for him. 

Each step down the three flights of stairs feels somehow worse than the last. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to Dream; he doesn’t know where they stand; he doesn’t know how he’s meant to act. Dream said things would be okay, but would they? He can feel an unresolved tension that drags at his feet with every corner he turns until it’s almost a monumental effort to lift his boots from one tread to the next. 

It’s painful, is what it is. 

Finally, he reaches the well-kept foyer of Dream’s building. It’s small, with the usual double-door format that the city tends to use for the brutal winter months. Mailboxes line the wall, set in a metal trim that far outstrips them in terms of age. The tile is slightly scuffed from people wiping off their snow boots, and a handful of dings line the wall from unwieldy packages. It’s so much like his own, and yet so unbearably foreign. 

He turns his back on the door so that he can meet Dream’s eyes for a moment, both of them suddenly skittish. “I, um, guess it’s time for me to go,” George tries, awkwardly worming his way around his sentences. “I’m sorry. Again. I know I’ve said it plenty of times, but I just want to say it one more. And I’m happy you let me in, really.”

The taller man nods, clearly chewing on the insides of his cheeks before he replies. “I-I forgive you,” He says, and the words make the weight inside of George that has been haunting him for days finally start to lighten. “I’m happy you came to apologize.”

There it is again: that silence. It’s thick between the two of them, and he can’t help but shuffle in place as he contemplates where he’s meant to go next. Should he try and— No. That’s stupid. Don’t ruin things again. “I want you to tell me when you’re okay seeing me again. I’m the one that put you in this position, so you should decide when you want to try again. I’ll keep back until you’re comfortable again, okay?”

“That’s generous of you.”

“Not really. It’s just the decent thing to do— what I should’ve done from the start.”

Dream’s gaze falls to the floor, staring at the tips of his slippers. “I’ll call you,” He promises. “Just… Please pick up the phone.” The words ‘this time’ are attached by a phantom thread and, even though they aren’t said, George hears them. “O-oh, and um— ah, never mind.”

“What is it?” He presses, still mindful to only push gently. The last thing Dream needs right now is to feel pressured. 

“Nothing, nothing.” He reassures, shooing away the thought with a flick of his hand. 

George eyes him warily, but knows that, of all the times to force something out of him, today is one of the only days that is totally and completely off-limits. So, he agrees and, with one last look, he braces himself for the glacial gale that slices into his face the moment he steps out into the night air. He shudders reflexively, lingering for a moment in the warmth of the foyer and shivering, before finally passing the threshold and carefully tapping down the stone stairs. Lost in his acclimation, he almost misses the next words that are spoken to him.

“It’s Clay.” He hears distantly, spoken from the eaves of Dream’s building with a timid voice. 

He turns just as he goes to open the gate, tilting his head quizzically and making the soft wool of his scarf brush his ear lobe. “What?”

“My name,” Dream clarifies, fiddling with the hem of his shirt and unable to meet George’s gaze: bashful. “My actual name. It’s Clay. I just wanted you to know, since we’re being open tonight.”

George can’t help but stare, watch the way blush dusts the blond’s ears and his cheekbones, study how his eyebrows knit together in worry as though he’s revealing a true secret. For the first time, he looks truly vulnerable. He wants to reach across this desolate space for him, to clasp their hands together so he feels less unbearably alone, but George recognizes the gravity of what he’s been given. He knows that he needs to stay here— safe in this threadbare separation— for fear of disrupting this delicate balance they’ve struck. 

“Thank you,” He breathes, soft and honest, into the frigid air that makes up the metaphorical kilometers between them. “For entrusting that to me.”

Notes:

I kept you waiting long enough, so apologies about that. I have a massive oneshot/commission down the pipeline which is the cause for most of the delay. Hopefully that’ll be out soon too!

This will probably be one of (if not the) only chapter with absolutely no explicit content in it, so I hope that’s still amenable! Some very important and tricky conversations needed to be had before we could go back to something like the pace of before :)

Thanks for sticking around for part ten of the journey I'm putting these poor boys through. I’ll see you in the comments, in my curiouscat, or on my twitter- until next time!

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Chapter 11: Spindles

Summary:

The days have passed, each hour blurring into a mass of emotional suspension. But, finally, finally, the moment of reunion comes, and trust is difficult to rebuild.

Notes:

I’d say sorry for the delay, but I’ve also published around 70,000 words since I last wrote a chapter of this, so my apology would not be entirely sincere lol. Anyway you should go read my other stuff, including a reverse version of snapdragons that I absolutely adore!

You know the drill: don’t share with ccs, don’t repost, this will be taken down if boundaries are changed.

Thanks to my beta readers, whose information/socials can be found on my carrd!
-snap
-bri
-blackberry

They talk at night now. It had started as a salvo: a way to begin to rend the distance between them until things went back to whatever stunted norm they’d been occupying what felt like so long ago. It had started like that, but now George is terrified he’ll never be able to sleep again without it. 

The first time had been an accident. Dream had texted with him for a while, before eventually giving in and asking to call. George had accepted, because he was never truly able to deny the smooth allure of his voice, and then the fatigue had slammed into him with all the delicacy of a newborn deer the moment he’d picked up the phone. It hadn’t even taken him twenty minutes to drop off the face of the planet, passing into the blacks of sleep as easily as he breathed. The blond had, of course, poked fun at him the next morning, but George wasn’t blind to the fact that, despite his teasing, he hadn’t hung up. 

The days go by as they normally do while they search for a pattern of blissful normalcy. Dream hasn’t asked for him to come over yet and, while he knows that he had explicitly left it up to him, George can’t help but yearn. The separation is almost torment since Dream is so close , and yet so far. When he showers, he can’t help but imagine the touch he’s been deprived of, even though he knows that it’s his fault. His fingers are never enough, and every gasping crack of his voice against the tile as his shame washes down the drain sounds so unbearably loud in his solitude. He comes, but it’s never satisfying: not anymore, not in the wake of how intensely he craves.

George never mentions it when they talk; he doesn’t want to push, and even so much as thinking about sex in Dream’s digital presence feels like a violation of the boundaries he swears he’ll never disrespect again. He can wait. He waits. He will. 

He’s lying in bed now, hair still damp from another one of those vile showers, while his phone rings against his bare chest, waiting for Dream to pick up. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” was the last thing he’d been told the night prior, honey promises amidst threadbare fatigue. The call rings once, twice, three and then four times, and then he’s sent to voicemail. George hangs up before he has the chance to hear the machine beep; he must just be taking out the trash or something, nothing to be worried about.

There is another wait. George has found, in the past two weeks, that waiting is a thing that he does often. He knows that all of this is his fault, he really does, but that does nothing to abate the nagging pain of the situation that he’s put himself into, plunging head-first. Why couldn’t he just… control himself? On a normal day, with a normal man, in a normal relationship, he’d always been able to regulate himself with ruthless efficiency, but he suddenly found all of those walls crumbling whenever he recalled the gentle timbre of Dream’s low voice or the sun-kissed curves of his cheeks when he smiled. God, this fucking sucks. 

He can’t hear her, but he feels the slightest jolt of the mattress when Cat leaps up to join him, cautiously padding her way toward his blanket-clad form. “Hi, sweetheart,” George softly calls out, beckoning her closer while he waits by his phone like a love-drunk highschool girl from the seventies. Thankfully, she follows, this time, and soon winds up perched next to his thigh, regarding him with curious eyes. 

“You don’t think he’s ghosting me, do you?” He asks her, knowing that she cannot provide an answer and that the fact he routinely uses his cat as a therapist is marginally concerning. “Like, he wouldn’t just drop off the face of the planet, right?”

She stares back at him before firmly placing her paws on his thigh and beginning to kneed. 

“No, that’s the kind of shit I do,’ He decides, chastising himself. “Not what Dream does. He’s responsible and caring and all that.”

George’s gaze finds itself wandering over the ceiling, tracing the barely-there dimples in old paint and dust and trying to decipher shapes from them in his mind. The flannel sheets wrapped around his hips feel soft against his skin, providing a modicum of comfort for his tired spine and the dread swirling in his stomach, but he misses the warmth of another body beside him. Even before he’d fucked everything up and hand-crafted this awful drought of physical contact, it wasn’t like he’d slept in Dream’s bed more than once or twice a week, at best; yet, despite that, he yearns for it as one yearns for oxygen. He wants tangled limbs and sleep-graveled voices muffled by their press into throats and shoulders and soft hair so badly that it makes his chest ache. For once, he isn’t really exaggerating on that account: there is a dull, but very real, physical twinge coming from inside of his ribs. 

If he closes his eyes and detaches himself just enough, he can almost imagine that Cat’s paws making biscuit dough out of his thigh are instead Dream’s fingers, engaging in that habit of squeezing the flesh there just to watch it protrude softly from between his digits. When George had asked him about it one night, he’d watched as the blond’s cheeks had darkened with tint and he’d stammered out: It’s just- you have really pretty thighs, sue me. What he wouldn’t give to feel his touch there now: to feel his touch anywhere. 

As if sensing the rapidly quickening tempo of his spinning mind from across town, his phone finally pings against where it rests on his breastbone, startling Cat out of her intense bakery prep and sending her shooting to the end of the bed. George frees a hand from beneath the covers so that he can pull the screen into his field of vision. 

 

[Dream] 12:17 AM: hey i’m really sorry for being kind of mia but i just. don’t think i can really talk tonight

 

The feeling of dread slams into the pit of his stomach faster than any he’d ever felt before, and he can practically weigh the thoughts that swirl together in tandem in his own cupped hands, heavy enough to manifest in physical form. What had he done this time? He’d been sure to be so, so painfully careful these past two weeks: always watching his words and measuring out each sentiment a teaspoon at a time. George had been certain to never push, or even attempt to take the lead in a conversation. He made sure to go at Dream’s pace, because his transgressions had made it so. He thought he had been so delicate, so deliberate , but the panic of flight immediately begins to surge in his mind once he realizes that he’s done something to drive Dream away yet again. 

 

[Dream] 12:19 AM: don’t take this any kind of way- it’s just me needing space. you didn’t do anything, i promise. i just… i’m dealing with a lot emotionally rn and i just need a quiet night. 

 

[Dream] 12:20 AM: is that okay? the last thing i wanna do is make you upset. you didn’t do anything okay george? 

 

Even when he’s distressed, he still does nothing but care and consider others, and the kindness makes George want to cry.

 

The thing is, the only source of emotional turbulence in Dream’s life is, at the end of day, George. He knows what sins he has committed, and he knows that this is his penance. George is at fault for the pain that Dream is clearly struggling with, the depth of which is still entirely unknown to him. What he did was, of course, objectively shitty; he cannot paint this situation from watercolor pastels and drown in the sanguine tranquility of a pleasant landscape. 

 

[George] 12:22 AM: yeah of course it’s okay dream. you don’t owe me your time when you don’t want to give it 

 

There is really no avenue for him to traverse here other than sweet acquiescence. He’s already fucked up so much, and he knows that he can’t risk letting anything else even wobble, let alone shatter to pieces on the floor. That warmth that so frequently lives within his chest at the thought of Dream begins to burn in his esophagus, sour with bile and the inescapable consequences of his own actions. 

He will sleep alone tonight, as he does every night, but he will no longer even be able to pretend that the pillows he stuffs beneath his prone body thrum with the heat of another man. The silent drone of the city will swallow him whole. 

George’s next actions are fairly rash, but are unlikely to be destructive, in the grand scheme of things. His phone is in his hands before he can process, and his typing begins hardly a moment later, right thumb and left index finger tapping their way across the glass on an invisible keyboard, hidden beneath glowing pixels that shone in the dark. The message that he composes is ultimately short, but he can hardly stomach the idea of giving himself over to sleep without addressing it somehow . 

It isn’t proofread, hardly even checked over to ensure that autocorrect did not maul the intended message, and he slides his phone face down onto his nightstand before he can give it too much thought. He’s quite good at that, he finds: thinking too much. 

 

[George] 12:24 AM: i know you say that it has nothing to do with me, but i’m sorry anyway. i made things so terrible. i don’t know how you can ever trust me again

 

He falls into a fitful sleep, dreams plagued by their aureate eponym.

---

When he’s awoken, he isn’t entirely sure what the time is. All his drowsy mind can process is the mechanical buzzing just off to his left: the telltale sound of glass on wood at high frequency. He can hear the wind scream its way through the tree just outside of his window, knocking spindled branches against the panes. 

George grabs blindly, doing everything in his addled power to make the incessant hum stop so that he can return to sleep. His hand slams into the corner of his bedside table and stamps a pinpoint bruise in between his metatarsals, sending curses tumbling from chapped lips as his phone continues its unpitched song. Ow. Finally, after a few unsuccessful slaps of his palm against the tabletop, one colliding with blank wood and another catching his charging cable, he grabs his phone and brings it up to his ear before he can even think.

“Wha’?”

There’s silence on the other end, as though the caller is suddenly processing the fact that they are, in fact, calling in the middle of the night. 

“Oh my god. I totally woke you up.” The stiltedness in Dream’s voice is immediately apparent: his throat is tight and his tone is hesitant, as though he is holding something back or on the verge of breaking bad news. Despite it all, Dream is far clearer than he is, and his sweet warmth blooms within George’s ears. He’s suddenly far more conscious. 

He blinks roughly a few times, trying to mentally will the cloud of exhaustion to dissipate from his heavy limbs and heavier lids. “It’s fine,” George mumbles, focusing on the feeling of cotton against his skin in an effort to ground himself. “What’re you callin’ for this late?” 

Dream is quiet for a few long breaths, and he can practically hear the other worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I, uh- well, it’s about that message you sent.”

A hum is the only adequate response he can give, not exactly sure what direction Dream is attempting to take this. 

“Well, I just—” He pauses, breath stuttering as he attempts to collect his thoughts. “Fuck, okay, I maybe didn’t really think this through.”

“Take your time.” George slurs, still struggling to drag himself into wakefulness. 

Dream’s thoughts are practically loud enough to hear through the white static of the phone line, warbling in strange waves of snow against his eardrums. “You said you don’t know how I can ever trust you again.”

He makes a noise of affirmation. “I did say that, yes.”

“Do you- can we try something?.”

The fog is very slowly beginning to unfurl the tendrils it has wrapped around his brainstem, and he finally manages to push himself into a sitting position. “Depends on what that is.”

“Okay, well,” Dream starts, shuffling coming from the other end of the call as he moves around in his bed. “I thought that maybe we could… I don’t know, you’ll probably think I sound stupid.”

Despite the fact the other can’t see him, George quirks an eyebrow anyway. “Being a bit hasty here, aren’t you? I’ve no idea what you want to say.”

The distant man laughs softly at that, twinges of anxiety creeping into the stuttering tones. “Well, I just thought that we could, like, do some kind of- kind of trust exercise.”

“Are you asking me to fall backwards off of a stool, Dream? Because I’m going to be honest and say that I’m not all that sure how that’s going to help reassure you.”

“Well, I- Not that, no.” He falls quiet after that, silence pregnant with uncertainty and doubt. 

George can sense that whatever has fueled Dream to call him at this ungodly hour is something that he’s clearly struggling to get past his lips. God only knows just how deep in his own head he is, and the preceding need for space is likely not helping, so he decides that the best thing he can do is coax him along. “I can just hang up and go back to sleep if you aren’t ready to ask me, Dream. It’s okay.”

His radiator kicks on in the background, a soft purr that far outstrips any noise that Cat could make. Dream’s empty auditory snow serves as a muted accompaniment to their tandem thoughts, crackling in the absence of words. 

“The past two weeks have been, like, good,” He finally broaches, clearly anxious. “I can tell that you’ve been trying and, you know, I appreciate that. I just… I feel like we should kind of do something to show that we’re really committed to doing this again? Like, the both of us. We should both do something.”

George takes in his words one at a time, gradually processing the meaning behind them and trying to figure his way into what he was intending to say. “Something like what?”

More tossing and turning shoots through the phone as Dream rolls his thoughts beneath his tongue. “I mean, I think that maybe things’d improve if we told each other something that we thought would help kind of get back trust, at least during sex.”

“So, you want me to tell you something I want to do that would help you trust me again?”

He can almost hear Dream shake his head before he remembers that George cannot, in fact, see him. “I want you to tell me something that would help you trust me more again.”

“What?” George can’t restrain the confusion laying heavy in the single word. “I wasn’t the one who—”

“Doesn’t matter,” He’s cut off, the other’s voice gentle yet firm. “I want you to tell me something to do, and I’ll tell you something I want to do. We need to- to be equals again.”

George thinks over the proposition, evaluating the reasoning behind it. A gesture of trust would certainly do a lot to help rend the cavernous distance between them: listening to each other’s needs, an opportunity to be honest, and being vulnerable. The principle makes sense on its face, and he would do just about anything at this point to fix what he’s done, anyway. “The- the reason I started this whole thing with you is because I wanted to put my trust in someone: to put my trust in you. I want to keep putting my trust in you,” He takes a deep breath, knowing that these next few minutes could potentially alter the entire trajectory of whatever the fuck they have. “Do you want to go first?”

A tremulous breath echoes into the quiet of his room as Dream considers his own proposition. “Well, it isn’t, like… it’s nothing all that serious, but I think it’d help me kind of just get used to being close with you again.”

George waits patiently, curious as to what he could possibly offer. For fuck’s sake, he would happily serve as human furniture if it did the trick. 

“You’re probably gonna think that I’m being silly, and it doesn’t really mean anything and—”

“Dream,” He interrupts, voice breathy from the anticipation and anxiety of it all. “Just tell me. I’ll probably agree to whatever the hell it is.”

Dream audibly swallows, tense air between them as he hovers in indecision for a long time. He knows that he can’t rush him when he’s like this, especially not now, when so much hangs in precarious balance. Each breath that passes them by rattles between the branches of his lungs like wind through so many cellulose twins. He waits. 

Finally, an answer comes, and he can’t quite understand Dream’s terror in the admission. “I- I want you to cockwarm me,” He starts, proposition incredibly tame considering the sheer variety of absolutely filthy acts they have committed together. “I know it’s not all that intense or anything, but it forces us to be as close as we possibly can without actually having sex; at least, not proper sex, anyway. We don’t normally get to be so close when we fuck, so I just… I think it’d be kind of a big deal if we can just start there again.”

If George were to say that he hadn’t desperately wished to do the exact act up for debate many, many times before in his fantasies and fleeting lust-fueled thoughts, he would be lying. “I want to do that,” He confesses, cheeks heating even though he cannot be seen. The proximity to Dream will be admittedly difficult for his emotions, but being held like that doesn’t sound too bad. “Wanted to for a while, really.”

The relief in Dream’s next words washes over him in the gentle, sand-lapping waves of a calm cove. “I’m really happy to hear that. What do you, uh- do you know what you’d want to do?”

There are a lot of things that he could say. He wants to feel Dream around his cock again, vice-like and searing; he wants to be pressed up against the windows in Dream’s bedroom that face the street and fucked within an inch of his life until he dirties the panes with his sin; he wants to be made to come over and over until he’s begging to stop, sobbing and trying to curl away, and for Dream to simply keep going until he’s had his fill of the show and George has so much less than nothing left to give. 

But, then there is that one thought: the forbidden fruit of Eden, the words he thought of only in hushed whispers and silent admonition. It is the one thing that has been lodged in the folds of his brain for months now, ever since that very first night with Dream. It forms a knot in his throat as he contemplates whether or not now is the time for this, if this would only worsen the way that Dream viewed him. 

Then again, he’s burnt almost every single bridge he had: why not dangle the torch over just one more?

“I want you to gag me.”

Time freezes. His own stomach drops the moment that the short phrase passes through his nerve-bitten lips. He can feel Dream’s own thoughts grinding to a halt. 

“ George .” He chokes out. Low: a warning. 

“I- I know how this sounds,” George rushes to fill in the gap left by their respective silences. “I know what I said, but I just- things have changed! I promise, they—”

“I’m not letting you violate one of your own boundaries just to get me to trust you again. This isn’t some kind of fucking sick tit-for-tat, George,”  The tension is so thick that it could only be cut with the force of a driven cleaver. His voice is a hardened edge of Damascus. “Take this seriously, or I’m hanging up right now.”

He scrambles. “I am taking this seriously!” Even exclamations somehow don’t seem enough. “I know what I said, and what I told you the line was, but ever since that first night, when I- when I couldn’t speak, I’ve been thinking about it. I was so fucking scared of losing that, of not being able to yell my way out of something, but that first time? You were so fucking good to me, Dream: you were patient and kind and everything that I needed you to be. Even though I was scared, you showed me that my safety and my wishes could still be respected when I didn’t have a way of vocalizing them.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it ever since then. It’s always been in the back of my mind, you know? Whenever I’ve lost my voice, it hasn’t even been under my control; it’s just happened , and yet you always took care of me. You made sure that I had a hand to guide me through that unknown, and that I had something to ground me, to protect me. And when everything was said and done, you were always there to hold me and make sure I was okay. So, what if I gave it up on my own? What if I let you take it? I know that I could trust you when I didn’t have a choice to make, so why is me actually making the decision any different? I trust you, Dream, and I want to make sure that you know. This is how I make you know.”

When he runs out of words, his breath is gently trembling and his hands match its tempo on a more violent cadence. These thoughts are ones that he’s been thinking for months now, taboo and not meant to be touched by anyone. 

“This feels like you’re pushing yourself for my sake.” Dream breathes on the other end of the line, and he wishes for nothing more than to trace the lines of worry and confusion that are inevitably etched into his face, soothing the pain and lilting reassurance across his skin. 

George understands his misgivings because, to him, this seems so out of the blue. He had never gone into all that much detail about how he’d felt going into that headspace where his tongue grew to stone and his lips could not shape sound. 

The thoughts themselves had been slow to develop, constantly in his subconscious, intertwined with notions of control and power in their relationship. Even bound and silent, Dream was still careful enough with him that even the smallest cues could be found and immediately responded to. Over the long weeks, Dream had grown to know his body and the way that his pleasure manifested, the way his reticence displayed itself, and George trusted him. 

It simply came down to that. He trusted him. 

“I think that describing it is difficult,” George admits. “But it’s something that’s been on my mind for a long time. I trust you to do so many things to me, and I know that you are a good man. I know that you will take care of me. Will you please take care of me like this, too?”

There is a shaky exhale, followed by a temperamental silence. “Can I- can I think about it?”

“Of course,” George echoes immediately, force evident in the two words. “If you aren’t comfortable with it, I’ll happily pick something else. I just… I think I’ve wanted to try it for a while, now, and this seemed like the best possible opportunity, now that we have to relearn how to dance.”

Dream sighs out a laugh at that, thankfully, and the call surrenders to the static of the restless city once more, the gravity of this single exchange practically heavy enough to bore a black into his own chest. “Goodnight, George.”

“Goodnight, Clay.”

---

 

[Dream] 6:17 AM: okay. 

 

[Dream] 6:17 AM: okay, we can do this

 

[Dream] 6:20 AM: thank you for trusting me

 

---

What is there to say about the time in between? Nothing much, truth be told. The days pass until the weekend, both determined to wait until they have the time to properly execute this little exercise of theirs. They don’t discuss that fateful conversation again, evening calls focusing on the quotidien mundanity of life: the annoying coworker who keeps stealing Dream’s yogurt from the office fridge and the same heckler who has tried to sell George weed three separate times on the train this week. Patches apparently falls into the bath at some point, and proceeds to hide beneath Dream’s couch for two straight days before she creeps out from her hidden spot and “forgives” him for not catching her before she’d hit the water. It brings a sense of blissful normalcy that George had been craving for weeks, now. He’s able to feel somewhat at ease with Dream again, both clearly heartened by the desire to restore trust between them, and everything goes simultaneously far too slowly and far too quickly until he’s standing on Dream’s front stoop on Saturday evening. 

His gaze is locked by golden eyes, still descending the stairs as their owner had completely frozen. The shadow that clings to Dream’s jaw is a little darker than he tends to keep it, and the slope of his shoulders isn’t quite as proud as it once was as soon as he lays eyes on the smaller man. They stand, frozen, and attempt to summon the courage to move. Even through the glare of the plate glass and the shitty flourescent floods in his lobby, Dream is so, so fucking beautiful. 

He isn’t prepared for the ravenous emptiness that strikes him the moment that the other takes the last two steps of the stairs and reaches the door, separated from George by only a few millimeters of glass. 

He’s scared. He’s absolutely fucking terrified, and he can tell from the way Dream’s pupils are hopelessly shrunken that he is, too. 

Thankfully, it’s Dream that eventually works up the courage to pull the door inward, opening a sliver of space for George to slip through to reach the heated room just beyond. 

“H-hi,” He stammers, eyes flitting about, as though he isn’t quite sure where he’s meant to look. “I, uh- fuck .” Dream’s exasperation rears its head as he struggles with even a basic greeting. 

George somehow finds it endearing. “Hi.”

He pushes his hands through his own hair in a typical gesture of anxiety. “Okay, I need to tell you that I’m nervous out of my mind right now, so… sorry about that.”

The snort that escapes him is positively hideous, but he hopes that it helps Dream feel a little bit more at ease. “You’re nervous? The last time I was here, I tried to fix shit by blowing you; imagine how I feel.”

There: a genuine laugh, at last! Dream takes a moment to process, but soon the corners of his eyes are stamped by crow’s feet and his lips split into a toothy grin as he giggles. It’s the first honest joy that George has heard from him in weeks, and he isn’t a stranger to the way he feels tears just barely prick the corners of his eyes. He never wants to deprive him of his delight once more: he never wants to make him suffer again. 

“W-well, are you okay with coming up?”

“Are you okay having me come up?” George retorts, although his tone is soft and even: it’s a genuine question and nothing more. 

Rather than answer him with words, Dream simply grabs for his hand and gently tugs him up the first few stairs before the smaller man eventually regains his ability to function, the warm palm folding over his causing electricity to arc between them. The touch is so unexpected and tender that it feels undeserving, but all that he can do is squeeze his grip back and propel himself up in time with Dream’s footsteps. He wishes that he could hold his hand all the time. 

Dream continues to hold his hand as he helps him out of his trousers; he continues to hold his hand as he pins his arms behind his back and takes his time wrapping George up in sweet lattices of carnelian; he continues to hold his hand as he settles his half-bare body in his lap and another hand slips long fingers inside of him; he continues to hold his hand as George begins to tremble with pleasure, cock quickly hardening against where it presses into Dream’s body; he continues to hold his hand as the infringing ecstasy begins to edge out the anxiety and they whisper reassurances into each other’s ears, talking about how things will go. There is not much use in talking, now: actions are to be their language for this evening. Some things can only be shown, not heard. 

It happens in such a haze that George feels like he’s barely gotten through the door by the time that Dream is pulling his fingers from him, stretched and aching to have the other back inside. 

“ Please .” He murmurs into the crook of Dream’s jumper-clad neck, face pressed there in refuge from the intensity of his stare. 

“Lift yourself up a little bit,” Dream instructs, nudging him softly into the position that he will be taking for some time, shins pressed to the couch as they settle in for some asinine show on the television while George warms his cock. “Just like that, there we go. Can you feel me?”

George nods, feeling slickened flesh press just slightly against him, heat intoxicating. Oh, how many nights he had spent imagining how it would feel to take him inside again…

“Just come down slowly, baby,” Dream isn’t yet harsh, all gentle reassurance and thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “This first part is meant to be slow.”

With a final squeeze of Dream’s hand in his own, he slackens the muscles in his thighs and moans out as the head of the other’s cock catches on his rim.

All of it is so overwhelming as he sinks down; it’s been weeks since they’ve been together, and George’s body has since forgotten what it was like to have Dream. “W-wait.” He stammers out, struggling to relax himself enough despite being thoroughly prepared. 

Dream’s hands are on him in an instant, slipping from George’s grip at long last in order to stabilize his hips so that he doesn’t move any more than he wants to as they begin to quake. “Are you okay? We don’t have to do—”

“ No ,” George cuts in forcefully, desperately not wanting his request for pause to be misinterpreted. “I don’t want to stop. I just- it’s- I forgot how much you are.”

The other’s body language softens at that, and Dream’s mouth moves to quickly latch onto the side of his neck, sucking yet another mark into the flesh there before pulling back and meeting his eyes, laden with a gentility unbefitting of their typical dynamic. “Take the time you need. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The last line stings for a couple of different reasons. 

The stretch burns and, while the slight, exhilarating pain is normally welcomed, he hadn’t been expecting it tonight. George can feel that the widest part of the head of Dream’s cock had already pressed past his rim, and he knows that holding here wouldn’t actually do anything for his comfort, but the muscles in his hips seize, keeping him stock-still as he trembles. 

“Deep breaths, George,” The man beneath him supplies, grip soft and gentle as thumbs soothe over his hip bones in a gesture of patient affection. “You’re okay. Just relax for me, yeah? Make it easier on yourself.”

He nods, eyes squeezing shut as he does his best to release the tension sitting coiled deep in the fibers of his body. Dream helps how he can, leaning down to gently kiss up his neck, pressing docility and compassion against hot skin, thrumming with life only just beneath. He’s a gentle grounding force as he whispers calm reassurance right beneath George’s ear, coaxing him into a less tense state where he can begin to give himself up to gravity and fall toward Dream’s lap.

After what feels like an eternity, his hips finally settle against a pair of strong thighs, and he lets out a tight breath he didn’t even know he was holding. 

“There you go,” Dream purrs, hands sliding down to forcefully grip his ass and make him squeak in surprise. “Such a good boy for me, baby.”

George whines at that, cheeks starting to burn with the praise. “Th-thank you, sir.”

Dream helps him rearrange just slightly, splaying the brunet’s legs a little further so that his shins can rest in the most comfortable position possible on top of the couch cushions. They’re pressed flush together from George’s feet up to his crown and, like this, he absolutely understands why Dream chose it as his way of rebuilding their bridges. It’s an act of deep intimacy and, necessarily, trust; George is at his mercy in an entirely different way. Gone is the typical harshness that he’s grown used to from Dream, but he still feels just as fragile as he normally did with him. He might have the mobility of his legs in theory, but he can’t really move; he can’t twist his head enough to see the game show playing on the television behind him; he can’t even chase his pleasure or get the slightest hint of friction. All that he can do is sit here, bury his face in the crook of Dream’s neck, and wait. 

Hands continue to knead soft flesh, remembering how his body curves and dips with pressure, and the touches pull his already-stretched rim further. George makes a noise at that, which tumbles into a full-throated whine hardly a moment later when fingers start to rub at the place where they’re joined. It’s filthy and humiliating and painfully arousing, all at once. 

“Taking me so well, just like the good whore you are.” Dream groans as he continues the delicate movements of his index and middle fingers, careful just to tease and not to push too far. “ Fuck , I’ve forgotten how good it feels to be inside you.”

Unable to do anything else, he relaxes into Dream’s hold and tries to ignore just how badly his cock throbs where it’s hidden beneath the fabric of his own jumper. His body is a warm and steady presence against his own, holding him up and grounding him all at once. If he focuses, he can feel Dream’s heartbeat against his cheek: even-tempered and a little bit elevated. “Thank you.” George whimpers into cool skin.  

Dream finally stops the slight torment with his fingers, changing to comforting and soothing movements again as he strokes down his waist with gentility. “Doing okay?” He asks quietly, dropping any act to sincerely check in with him. 

“Yeah,” He answers, nodding despite the fact his head is actively resting against Dream’s shoulder, and can’t be seen. “I’m okay. I’ve gotten used to it now.”

A hum resonates from within Dream’s chest that he can feel in his own skull. It fills him with a cotton-headed warmth. “Tell me if that changes, okay? I’m just going to sit here with you, so we can take as long or as short as we want.” His voice is so, so gentle. 

In the background, he hears the television playing. Cliched theme music rings through the air, albeit with the volume turned down, and he can feel by the angle of Dream’s face that he’s watching the colorful images flash across the screen. It’s some American game show that he doesn’t recognize, either in terms of format or the host’s exuberant voice. He goes on about the rules of the show, voice peaking and flattening in dramatic pulls of tone, before introducing the contestant. 

“What’re you watching?” George finally pipes up, too unfamiliar to figure out what’s happening. 

Instead of immediately replying, Dream’s palm lightly falls on George’s ass, the shock of it forcing a yelp from his throat. “You’re not watching with me, baby. That’s not your job right now. Your job is to sit on my cock and be good, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He quickly responds, but it’s borne out of sincerity, not a desire to appease. He’s almost ashamed to admit that the other’s words have him flushing with arousal. George is being ignored, in a way: just a source of warmth and slight pleasure while Dream’s focus remains elsewhere. He’d thought about it before, multiple times, and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about this late at night. 

And, so, he settles into his role. George lets his body fall lax, limp and suddenly tired where he rests. His eyes flutter shut, long eyelashes inevitably brushing against Dream’s throat, and he continues to deepen his breathing as he relaxes further. All the while, the blond continues to watch, occasionally laughing when the host makes light-hearted quips and jabs toward the audience or his contestant. He doesn’t address George at all beyond light touches to check in with him without explicitly asking; each time, George leans into each one of them to let him know that he’s alright, and then the hands fall away and move on elsewhere. 

As this process goes on, he eventually starts to drowse. His eyelids grow heavier, and cotton slowly begins to fill his head. George has missed this feeling: that sweet, floating space he enters when he realizes that he is completely in Dream’s care. It’s been so many weeks since he’s been able to quiet his mind like this, and the noise has been so exhaustingly painful that it makes his head spin. Now, he can finally let himself slide into the lavender haze. George lets his mind go, all of his neurons buzzing with nothing but Dream and the whispered ecstasy that comes from taking him inside. Dream will take care of him; Dream will show him his place; Dream will make sure that he can think of nothing else besides the pleasure that comes from serving him; Dream will take away all of his control and make his body sing . 

But, after a time—it could have been five minutes, it could have been thirty, he couldn’t be sure—his reverie starts to break as one of his hips seizes with a sudden and violent cramp and he lets out a noise of discomfort. Dream, feigning disinterest the entire time but clearly entirely alert, addresses him immediately. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Cramp, nnh— ” George winces, shifting subtly, but it’s not enough to relieve the pain. “My hip, it’s- ow .”

Dream’s hands lift him carefully but still quickly, helping him off of his cock in the span of a few moments so that he can stand, albeit with support. He serves as George’s balance, giving crucial aid so that he can stretch his cramped joint and find a little bit of relief. One of those hands steadily holds him by his waist, while the other stretches his leg manually, pulling him this way and that to get his pain to abate. Staying upright is difficult, even with Dream’s grip on his torso, and the entire situation is a bit awkward: his hard cock strains against the lower hem of his jumper, the soft burn of the stretch sits low against his tailbone, and lube still slicks where his thighs join. But, despite that, Dream is patient. 

“Stretch for me, you’ve got it, doll,” He encourages, still seated but scooting forward in his spot so that he can use his own knees to stabilize George’s wobbling frame. “Take your time. I can tell you’re fuzzy.”

And he is, that much is true. He’s desperately still trying to cling to the saccharine fog of subspace and, while Dream’s constant, unwavering touch certainly helps to keep him there, he can tell that it’s slipping, with great despair. “Wanna come back.” George murmurs, still on one leg while the other man carefully twists his joint for him. 

“Is it gone?” Dream queries in reply, not showing even an inkling of a suggestion that he himself was twitching against his jumper-clad belly. “The cramp, I mean. We need to get rid of that first.”

George nods, carefully shifting in his bonds. “Let me come back.”

His leg is finally put back down and Dream opens his arms to welcome him: an opportunity which he hardly waits even a second before taking advantage of. George is climbing back onto his lap immediately, doing everything he can to hide his impatience while he waits for Dream to take hold of his cock and press back inside of him. 

“Come on, keep me warm,” He comments. “Let me get back to my evening.”

George’s eyes roll back in his head as he settles down again, jolting when Dream pulls him tight against his chest. The change in position skews the angle he’s sitting in too, and a shiver runs through his body as the head of Dream’s cock presses right against his prostate. He isn’t moving, there’s no friction, but the pressure is immediately felt. A soft huff of breath falls from his lips, and he feels the muscles in his pelvis involuntarily flutter from the stimulation. 

“D-Dream—” He tries to tell him about his positioning, about the strange heat that creeps up the back of his neck, but he’s softly hushed. 

“Let me watch, baby. Just rest in the meantime so you’re ready for the next scene, yeah?”

George swallows and nods, embracing the way his body starts to flush with a soft, radiating warmth that spreads across his skin like bliss incarnate. He’s certain that Dream can feel just how badly his cheeks burn where he’s pressed against his neck, but he doesn’t mock him for it. A part of him thinks that Dream’s own face is just as dusted with rose and warmth, but he’s too nervous to lift his head to look: the proximity would kill him in only a moment, so he lets himself quietly glow in his hidden perch. 

The other laughs, a sweet piece of music that George can feel rumble from his chest. He makes a quip to the man trembling in his lap about the television show, treating his breathy response with glowing pride and haughty superiority. He’s clearly enjoying himself, but George doesn’t know just how much he’s missed this, too. 

As the minutes tick by, his arousal only grows. That aching pressure makes his walls twitch around Dream, and flashes of searing ecstasy boil softly in the background. George can feel just how badly he’s begun to drip into the knit fabric he still hasn’t taken off, and embarrassment briefly flashes at how he’s inevitably staining it. This feels different from normal, like his entire body is starting to roast, starving him of air, and making all his blood rush south. It isn’t long before his breaths come out in soft gasps, and he’s delicately trembling in Dream’s hold like a leaf in the autumn wind. 

“Dream?” He asks again, not sure if he’s asking for relief or for more. 

The blond tilts his head away from the television, undoubtedly having noticed how George is shaking. “What is it, baby? Feel good?”

He honestly isn’t sure how to answer. He feels so much that it’s overwhelming. “I-I feel weird.”

That catches Dream’s attention, and the program’s volume is quickly cut in half. “What do you mean? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” He replies, giving it as much honesty as he can. “I feel like I’m- like I’m burning up.”

He can’t see it, but he can hear the smirk in Dream’s voice. “You really did miss me, I think. I haven’t seen you this much of a mess in a long time, Georgie,” There is a clear pride there that he had fallen in love with the night Dream had begun taking him apart. “But, let me know if this is too much. It’s not an exercise in trust if you’re uncomfortable.”

While he’s talking, George feels his walls twitching and pulsing without permission, and he knows that Dream can feel it, too, because he softly groans into the crown of his head. His cock only drips more, and he feels like some part of him is going beyond his control. His toes curl as Dream’s hushed voice, whispering careful poison into his ear, fills his senses and drives him further toward some new brand of overwhelming that he’s never encountered before. 

“Dream—” He breathes as white blood cells float across his vision in swarms of high-tempered dizziness. 

Suddenly, that strange, inexplicable feeling continues to mount, and his fingertips are scrambling for purchase on the lovely ropes that bind him in a desperate bid to hold on in the midst of whatever tide was rapidly rising inside of him. His own mind is operating in such strange, unfamiliar loops additionally blurred by submission that he can’t find it in himself to even make noise, let alone say something concrete to Dream. 

“George?” He calls for him, hands settling low on his hips again. “George, talk to me.” 

Before, he’d refused to lift his head out of fear of suddenly being so close to Dream’s golden eyes, but now he finds himself glued to his spot against the other’s throat because he fears that if he dares to move, he’ll fall apart entirely. Something is chasing him, torrid and disorienting, and he knows that it will catch him eventually. 

He trembles with the force of each breath, vaguely cognizant of the fingers that are now petting through his hair in what he can only guess is an attempt to keep him attached to this planet, or maybe to get his attention: an impossibility at this point. 

George has never felt like this, not in years upon years and dozens of hookups and an unfortunate amount of hours spent on his own. He can practically feel every single nerve in his body hum with some unidentifiable buzz, swarming every single one of his senses as the water finally begins to lap at his chin and his mind returns to him for a split second.

“N-no, no, no, no—” He manages to force out, but he knows that trying to squirm out of Dream’s lap will only hasten his demise at this point. “No, I don’t- I don’t want to—”

And, so, he’s helpless to sit by and simply watch as he’s torn through an orgasm unlike any other that he’s had in his entire life. His hearing goes, his entire body seizes in salivating pleasure, and his cock barely twitches as he paints his belly white. Swirls of color rapidly bleed underneath his eyelids like abstract auroras and spear straight through his soul as he endures the sickening pleasure that courses through him in steady waves. There is no way that Dream doesn’t feel it, and he is vaguely cognizant of the fact that he’s stopped carding through George’s hair while he rides the interminable current of pleasure. The entire affair leaves him wholly disoriented, and he is still struggling to figure out what’s just happened, himself. Eventually, though, the Red Sea begins to part and everything comes crashing back, all at once. Fuck, I messed up. God, this is so, so bad; I’m absolutely fucked. The shame rises fast and bitter, his face going scarlet within seconds, managing to fight even through his haze of oxytocin. “I-I—”

Dream is struggling to process what’s even happened, mind almost audibly stammering as he tries to understand what’s happened over the last ten or so seconds. “Are you- why are you shaking, George?”

Unable to maneuver his arms within their restraints, George can only bury his face in Dream’s shoulder to hide while he feels the sticky heat streaked along the inside of his jumper start to cool. “I-I’m so sorry—” His lip is beginning to tremble before he can even stop it. “I didn’t mean to. I- it was an accident, I promise. Please, it was an accident, I’m sorry, I’m—”

There are hands on his jaw, gently pulling him from his makeshift foxhole, and the moment Dream lays eyes on his flushed face, something finally clicks in his head. “Hey, talk to me. It’s okay. It’s alright, George.”

“But I- you didn’t give me permission to,” Dream’s cock is still heavy and full inside of him, throbbing despite the fact George is absolutely shattering the mood. “I wasn’t allowed, and I—” As his brain swirls with quicksilver guilt and apologetic stigma, it’s no surprise that tears are quick to follow, hot and salted. He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch them drip stains onto Dream’s pullover. 

The hands move instantaneously from his face, back and down until they begin to tug at the tails of rope resting at George’s wrists, where the complicated tie Dream had chosen to go with finishes its long run. To think, they had begun tonight with the intention of getting reacquainted with their dynamic, of slowly sliding back into the precarious groove between pleasure and pain, and George had already fucked it up before they’d even really done anything. 

Unable to ignore the soft sobs starting to shake the smaller man’s chest, Dream pulls him in tight while he works on freeing his arms, embrace strong and steady. “George, it’s okay, I promise. It happens sometimes. I’m not mad at you.”

“You’re not?” He chokes out, disbelieving. 

“No, of course not, doll,” Dream explains, moving up from his wrists to the anchors tying his forearms together. “I know you didn’t want to come: that you wanted to be good. It’s alright. I’d never be legitimately upset with you, anyway. Any anger I ever show toward you is entirely for show, okay?” 

George just nods, sniffling softly as he cries on Dream’s cock for all the wrong reasons. “I’m sorry.”

Another quick jerk of careful hands, and all that remains are the loops of rope above his elbows. “Don’t apologize. I know that- that things have been difficult, okay? I know that. But this is just a small hurdle, I promise.”

Finally, at long last, George feels all of the rope slide away, rough cotton no longer stopping him from desperately wrapping his arms around Dream, and that’s precisely what he does. When the scene ends, and the ruched curtains of night fall, he’s used to clinging to him like this, but being able to press as close as he can with Dream still inside of him feels forbidden, somehow. The blond holds him back, soothingly rubbing his broad palms up and down his spine to calm him down as his cheek softly falls to rest on George’s head. It’s soft, and a little too achingly intimate, but he knows now that nothing useful will come from ruminating on that fact. 

“Do you want to stop for the night?” Dream broaches at last, not even flinching when George practically bowls over the question mark before it can even be inserted into the air. 

“No!” He scrambles to respond. “No, I… I want to keep going. Want to make you feel good.”

Dream sighs, a note of light-hearted annoyance in the sound. “I don’t want you to push yourself for the sake of my pleasure, or whatever,” He pushes, tone absolutely rigid and devoid of metaphorical wiggle room. “I want you to do what you want to do, George.”

He pulls back, the proximity of his ruined, tear-stained face to Dream’s beautifully-cut own making him burn with disgust at himself. “I don’t want to end. I’ve—” He’s almost too embarrassed to say the next part out loud. “I’ve missed this, okay? I’ve missed you.” 

The other seems satisfied with his response, and softly nods as he internally evaluates their next steps. “How about I get your sweater in the washing machine and give you a bit to catch your breath? I know you’re probably a little too sensitive right now to start again.”

“But, what about you?” George can still feel him, unflaggingly aroused to the point of aching. 

Dream just fondly scoffs at him. “I think I’ll live. Besides,” A devilish smile fixes itself to his full lips. “I don’t exactly have a hard time getting turned on when it comes to you, George.”

Despite the fact that Dream is literally inside of him as they speak, he can’t help the furious blush that rises to his cheeks. “You’re cute when you blush, you know.” That only worsens the situation, carmine turning to deep garnet, and Dream just affectionately laughs. 

After wallowing in his light-hearted embarrassment for a time, he softly pushes at Dream’s chest to indicate that he’s ready to get off. “Where’s your laundry?” 

He chuckles, simply sliding his hands up George’s jumper so that he can pull it from his flushed body. “I’ll deal with it, doll, don’t worry. How about you just go and lie down for a minute? Or clean up a bit, if you want?” 

George nods, extending his newly-freed arms above his head and exposing the heated flesh of his torso. The fact that he’s entirely bare sends him back to that vulnerable space, barely curling into himself to hide. 

“You’re so pretty , Georgie,” Dream coos, dragging warm hands across new skin. “Don’t be shy about that: you deserve to be admired.”

He’s turning red again, and he can’t summon anything to say in response. Fingers are branding him with white-hot trails in their wake, something he’s made aware of yet again with each shuddering expansion and contraction of his rib cage: in, out; blunt fingernails and calloused tips. He’s forgotten just how broad Dream’s palms are, lingering possessiveness winding its way along the webbing of his fingers and making George’s flesh sing. It’s almost enough for him to forget his own bashfulness. 

Eventually, though, the movement stops and George is left with expectation hanging in the air. He braces himself against Dream’s shoulders and finally attempts to find his wobblesome footing, foreign carpet soft beneath the soles of his feet. The blond is still there to steady him, a warm grip falling to stabilize his hips again, and it’s a few seconds later that Dream tucks himself back into his joggers and rises to join him. He feels achingly empty now that he’s no longer settled in his lap and, despite the fact he’s only just come, he craves that feeling again: addicting. Dream is addicting. 

He’s being pulled in before he can even process it, really, a strong arm along his shoulders as a quick kiss is pressed, delicate and tempered, to his crown. Then, as sudden as it had arrived, it’s gone. “Go relax for a few minutes while I go and load the washing machine. Do you want anything? Water?” 

George shakes his head, wanting nothing more than to feel Dream’s ownership across every crevice of his body. He wants him in bed with him, making him fall apart—no, shatter —and he curses a part of himself for ruining the flow of the night and delaying their arrival at that point. There are drying tears curving softly down his cheeks, and he hasn’t bothered to wipe up the mess he’s already made against his stomach. “Just wanna start over.”

The other hums in affirmation, meandering over to a folding door as he does so. “It would be a bit unfortunate if we both came all this way just for it to be over and done with so quickly, huh?” Dream muses, pulling back the slats to reveal a tidily stacked washer and dryer. He was lucky: George only had a mildly terrifying basement laundry room that his building shared. “I’m happy you’re up to try again.”

He stands bashfully in the entry to the hallway, demure. “I mean… it’s not like you’ve never made me come more than once before, so…” George trails off again, not wanting to say it. He finds it almost funny: before everything had almost fallen apart, Dream had taught him to forget shame, but now it consumes him once more. 

While he hopes that Dream doesn’t notice the fact that he’s holding back, he pauses his laundering quest, immediately catching onto his deceit. “So… what, George?” He pushes, discarding George’s cum-stained jumper into the drum of the washing machine to approach, quickly crowding him against the wall. “So, you want me to make you feel good?”

The sudden proximity is dizzying, their inherent height different combined with the status of their dress and how Dream seems to be sucking every particle of oxygen from the air around them making George feel helplessly and deliciously trapped. He is trembling: bare and diminutive. He nods. 

“So, you want me to tie you down and make you finish over and over again, huh?” Dream leans down further, tilting his body so that his tongue and drip poison directly into George’s ear, close enough that he can feel the anticipatory heat radiating from his body. “So, you want me to ruin you, doll? Make you feel just as owned as you are?” 

His throat is so, so unbearably dry. Swallowing feels like a chore, and he can barely breathe. There’s something in Dream’s tone that is lethal and, good lord and all the angels too, he’s missed him. “I- I didn’t—”

“Don’t try and fight it, yeah?” He butts in, teeth briefly catching on an earlobe to lightly tug. “You want me to fuck you until you can’t think of anything other than how good you feel, and I know it.”

George doesn’t want to fight it: he never has. Even when he was stained green with uncertainty, some fragment of his soul, deep and buried within blooming layers of trepidation, had always craved this: the possession, the surrender. Now that he’s gotten used to this state of existence, the past few weeks without it have infringed on agony. “Yes, sir.”

A contented noise rumbles from Dream’s chest, clearly pleased with his obedience. “Go and get on the bed: on your back. This isn’t a request this time.”

He bows his head in submission and waits for Dream to release him from his contactless pin, all the while distantly amazed that he has such a vicious hold without even touching him. George can feel the other’s penetrating gaze on him, inescapably intense, and does his best to keep himself composed instead of falling to his knees to serve. Thankfully, he manages to hold out just long enough for Dream to step back, returning his attention to finding laundry detergent as though he hadn't just punched a hole in the wall of George’s sanity. His profile is beautifully cut, slightly hooked nose in glowing relief in front of a distant sconce by his front door. The light turns golden on his skin: warm and bronzed despite the ivory winter that surrounds them all. No wonder the sun did not shine on the city, for it clearly only shone on Dream. 

Finally freed, George slips into the hallway, soft footfalls padding across creaking hardwoods that were likely installed decades before even his grandparents were born, and makes his way to Dream’s bedroom. The last time he had passed through this threshold, it had been with a bruised and aching throat, tears in his eyes, and fury in his heart. Being here again sends vicious spikes of uncertainty through him all over again. Could he do this? Could Dream do this? He still isn’t sure how the other has fully forgiven him, even in the wake of what could have been their Last Supper and the weeks of delicate mediation that had occurred afterwards: the wobbling tightrope they walked had come so close to snapping so many times. 

But, he knows that he must steel himself and take those steps to carry him over the sill. He’s run before, and he wound up going absolutely nowhere, in the end; the only option remaining is to move forward and pray that his path isn’t littered with shattered glass. 

The step itself comes easy, it’s just movement of his feet, after all. Lift, push forward, settle: a motion he’s done millions of times in his twenty-five years on this earth. This step, though, is filled with a unique sort of gravity that fills his bones until he feels like they’re ready to crack under the sheer pressure of it all. Nonetheless, he makes it, and the shift from hardwood to the soft woolen rug in the center of Dream’s bedroom feels comforting against the soles of his socked feet. 

Not knowing what else to do while he waits, George carefully climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and the comforter crumpling where it’s crushed, spiderweb wrinkles shooting out like a much kinder cousin of ice. Dream’s mattress is nice: soft, yet firm where it needs to be. He’s missed sleeping here, truth be told, and it’s easy to tell himself that it’s only because of the comfort. 

He tugs his socks off quickly, tossed them off somewhere to the side. Whether they end up on the floor or neatly folded on top of Dream’s dresser is a matter of absolutely no importance at this point; he just wants everything to go back to the way it was. Once he’s completely bare, stomach still glistening with his own release that he hasn’t even bothered to think about cleaning up and inner thighs still slick with lube, he lies back in the sheets to wait. Hopefully, Dream isn’t in a cruel mood where he forces him to wait unendingly, drawing out the anticipation until he’s practically shaking from it. The amount of control the blond manages to have over him is astonishing, and to think, he’d given up every last ounce of it willingly and without a second of hesitation. 

George’s gaze is glued to a far-too familiar ceiling, barely-discernible dimples in the centenarian plaster quickly falling into patterns he knows well by now. He spends several minutes studying, alone in the quiet of this watchful flat as he hears the washing machine sputter to life in the distance, muted by walls but still discernible. Not long after, he knows that Dream is there in the background, the foley generated by his footsteps and his rifling through boxes of sin serving as an accompaniment to his rapidly spinning thoughts. Do thoughts spin? Maybe bounce? What’s even the right metaphorical word for that? God, this is a dumb train of thought . 

Cotton presses to his bare spine, not damp enough with perspiration to stick to him just yet. The wait is agony, and he wants to say something, to ask for reassurance, but coming off so needy after such a long absence is… well, embarrassing is probably the best word for it. Dream has had to wait, too, and he’s maintaining his composure just fine. George can, too. 

Finally, after what feels like an hour, the bed dips just to his right, and he tilts his head to be met with the thankful sight of Dream. “And you’re really sure about this?” He asks, gesturing with his hands to the object he holds within them. 

The gag, in and of itself, doesn’t look all that remarkable: it’s only a plain leather strap attached to a silicone sphere about the size of a table tennis ball via a pair of o-rings. It looks small in Dream’s hands but, then again, most things do. The idea of this one little object has been haunting him for years, whenever he meandered into a sex shop with his scarf covering half of his face, or when he opened up virus-ridden websites to satiate his desires. But, now that it’s in front of him at long last, he can’t help but feel disappointed. 

“It’s… smaller than I thought it would be.” George admits, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can subtly worm his way closer to Dream.

The other nods, turning it in his grip. “I mean, I have others that’re a little bigger, and a spider one, too, but this seemed easier to start with, you know? No use in leaving the shallows for now,” He pauses, removing one hand to stroke down George’s thigh. “You don’t have to push yourself, George.”

“I’m not,” He clarifies in a less-timorous rehash of the initial conversation about it. “Pushing myself, I mean. I’ve thought about it for a while, now, and I’m comfortable enough with you to try.”

Dream fidgets, fingers tapping against George’s bare skin as he worries his full lower lip between his teeth. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable, right? I don’t- I’m scared of pushing you away again. I… don’t think I could handle that a second time.” 

His eyes bely twitches of anxiety, yet his expression is adorned with the markers of crestfall. If the words themselves weren’t enough, the vicious thread of trembling hurt that laces them certainly sends a bolt straight through George’s sternum, splitting his ribs apart as he silently flounders. There isn’t a way for him to strip just how small Dream sounds from his mind, not now and not ever. 

“Listen, that wasn’t- it’s not- you didn’t do anything that night, okay? None of that was your fault; I’m the one who fucked up, not you.”

The reassurances seem to fall on deaf ears, Dream’s gaze unfocused and trained on a random corner of the room. He looks weak almost, in contrast to his rigid, confident exterior. Even their last confrontation over dinner had witnessed him more angry than broken, but Dream seems like he’s fraying at the seams right now, despite the bravado he had only just shown while they were playing out the scene in the living room. His shoulders are tense, and his body language seems to curl in on itself all of a sudden: demure and fright. 

George sits up fully, briefly hesitating before he places a palm on top of the one already covering his thigh. He can’t tell if it truly catches Dream’s attention or not, because he can’t bear to look at the pain on his face anymore. “You are not at fault for what I did, okay?” He tries again, letting his thumb trace back and forth over the slightly protruding ridge of one of Dream’s metacarpals in understanding. “Besides, I wasn’t the one who was uncomfortable; you got hurt, not me. If anything, I should be on my knees begging you to do this.” He does his best to tack a light laugh onto the end of the sentence in an attempt to lighten the abyssal air. 

Thankfully, his bait catches, and Dream’s response is practically automatic. “You look so pretty on your knees,” He shoots back, as though it’s Pavlovian, and it does thankfully pluck a strand of levity back into the air. “But you… you are sure? About doing this?”

“I’m fine with the gag.” He replies simply, putting as much certainty and unwavering placidity in the words as he can, and hopes that puts it to an end.

“I’m not just talking about the gag, George.”

Oh . So that’s what this is all about. Despite his bravado and his confidence only five minutes prior, Dream is chipping at the corners, paint worn down and crackled after taking such a mental beating. The flaking pigment shows a more fragile man beneath it, vulnerable and hurting, and the sight makes his own chest ache. “I am absolutely sure. Are you sure?”

The man in question narrows his eyes just slightly, fingers fidgeting with the leather straps in his hands as he regards George: examines him for the slightest waver in his resolve while searching the planes of his face. There is a long silence. It stretches; it lingers, malleable and discontent. It’s more barren than any silence they’ve shared before. 

Finally, though, Dream seems to make his decision and nods to himself, head barely moving as he does so. “Yeah, I… I think that I’m ready for this again. Sorry if I’m being weird, I just…” He sheepishly trails off, lips turned downward in grimace at himself. 

“You’re not being weird,” George cuts in, dewy shame gathering on the highs of his cheeks as he flounders in the muck of his own making. “I’m still surprised you ever wanted to see me again.” The last sentence is hardly any more than a hoarse whisper, even though it had already been spoken so many nights prior. 

Dream’s fingers finally begin to respond to his own, twitching and turning just enough to let their hands properly entwine. George squeezes back just as the other begins to respond. “I’ll be the first to say that it probably would have been a hell of a lot easier for me to have just shut my front door in your face,” He confesses, sending a rush of ice straight through George’s core. “But I didn’t want to just kick you from my life like that. I mean, you saw all the fucking texts I sent, which I’m kind of embarrassed about now, but that’s beyond the point.” His tone grows bashful at the end, almost murmuring it rather than speaking it outright.

His own face softens in time with his reply. “I thought you were way more generous than you should’ve been, not embarrassing.” 

I almost wish you’d made me suffer for what I did. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you, and I still don’t understand how you can forgive me for that. 

The taller man sighs, quickly tightening his grip around George’s hand once more for a bit of reassurance as he shakily exhales. “Alright. I’m okay, I’m ready to do this again.”

Unsteady depths search out clouded gold and George holds his gaze for several long, long heartbeats. There is a shyness there that he isn’t used to seeing from Dream, but resolve faintly glimmers, too. Tacit agreement passes between them, then, as an understanding is reached: I trust you . 

Feeling marginally more reassured, George slowly slips his hand from Dream’s much larger one and begins to lean back once more, baring himself and offering vulnerability as he waits for them to properly begin. He always feels exposed with Dream, but not just in the sense that his naked body is on display; there’s something soul-stripping about the way he looks at him, and the way his fingernails just slightly dig into his flesh when he grips. By the time the night is through, he always feels as though he’s been flayed by the whip of desire, peeled back one excruciating layer at a time until he bleeds foul and pure carnality. Dream, his tormenter and his savior, is always there to lick his wounds and hold his trembling body. He can’t lose this. He can’t. Who else could make him feel such rapture? 

Dream’s long fingers are withdrawing, tracing spiderweb patterns into his right thigh, gooseflesh rising in trails in their wake. After so long without his touch, its departure feels like agony. 

“I don’t think we should do anything complicated, okay?” Dream poses. “Just- just keep things simple. Hands and feet to the bedpost, you know.”

He nods. While he knows Dream tends to prefer reveling in the complex, simplicity could have a multitude of compelling reasons behind it: less lag time between the scenes, less overall effort for Dream, who had already been engaged in this game for some time now, et cetera. There are, of course, other reasons that he prefers not to attribute this change to: the fact that a shorter ritual limits the amount of time they have to talk, that simpler ties mean a quicker release in the event that George chooses to run again. Maybe everything is easier if they cut out all the superfluous stuff like the affection and the tenderness and the human connection, after all. He hates to think of the grave he’s dug for himself. 

There are no words as Dream grasps his left ankle and delicately turns the joint in between his hands. There are no words as he loops crimson cotton around it in the first tie he had ever learned: the simple, versatile single column. There are no words as George softly tugs his leg in reflex to test the bind. There are no words as each of his limbs are immobilized by careful fingers and a silent gaze, his fingers twitching where they ache to reach out and touch: to grasp for Dream’s hand and hold him tight. But, all that survives is silence and a comforting, chafing pressure against him. 

George doesn’t know if it means anything, but the softer silk ropes are gone. He doesn’t ask where they went. 

Finally, the quiet is broken when full lips part and Dream’s low voice floods his ears. “Are you ready?”

Without even looking at him, he knows exactly what is being asked. “I’m ready. Do you have that coin I held our first night together? Just in case.” 

“Of course.” Dream replies, pivoting to the side to rifle through the top drawer of his nightstand. Miscellany clinks against the wood as he seeks his goal, scooting objects that George can only guess by sound alone: the thick slide of a book, the hollow plastic of a pen, the rattle of a half-full pill bottle. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for and settles in a hesitant perch on the edge of his bed, right next to George’s splayed figure. 

Hands cautiously reach for him, shaking slightly as they pause right before touching George, as though waiting for a permission that had already been given so long ago. But then there is a clammy palm pressing the metal disk directly beneath his own curled fingers so that he can close his own grip around it. 

“You can stop for absolutely anything, okay?” Dream reinforces. “If you’re uncomfortable, or if your joints are sore, or if- if you need to sneeze or—” 

He cuts in before the frayed nerves behind Dream’s vocal cords fizzle out entirely. “I know. I’ll be reactive, I promise.”

The taller man shifts awkwardly in place, grabbing for something that George can’t quite see from his vantage point and worrying his bottom lip between his front teeth. “Do you- is it okay if we do the final step?”

He nods, but the direct look that he’s shot immediately echoes something he’s been told almost every time they’ve fucked. “Yes, sir.” 

Dream reaches for him, then. A hand slides into his hair, nails just barely scraping against his scalp and making his eyes flutter shut on reflex as he cards through the strands. It’s been weeks since he’s been touched like this. A broad palm cradles the back of his head and lifts him slightly, just shy of hard on his neck, but never quite meeting the threshold. So lost in Dream’s touch, the feeling of a leather loop falling into place around his nape goes almost unnoticed for a little while as he settles instead for nuzzling against a pretty wrist. If he focuses hard enough, he swears that he can feel Dream’s heartbeat against his cheek, uneven as it is. 

“George?” The other speaks up, soothingly rubbing his occipital as he tries to get his attention. “This last part is up to you.”

He rouses from the comfort that’s almost thick enough to make him doze, and he looks up at Dream with wide, honest eyes. One gaze meets another, and he can tell that this is an inflection point. How they proceed is a temperamental act, hinged on this decision, right here, right now. Going back would mean a conscious and devastating blow to the already heavily damaged state of trust between them: a revocation of his own word, his own promises. Going forward would show Dream that flight is no longer an option, and that he is here, in whatever capacity that may be. The last time they had come together, the decision had been Dream’s, and now it is his. The air drips diaphanous between them, tense and unforgiving in its blunt brutality. 

George opens his mouth. “I want this,” George holds his words between the pearls of his mouth, fragile and prone to crumbling from nothing more than a breath. “I’m giving my voice to you. It’s yours.”

I’m yours.

Dream regards him, then. Pupils dilate in the gentle lighting of the lamp on his dresser, and George doesn’t miss how his breath softly hitches at his confession. The way his cheekbones catch amber renders him in Renaissance oils, shadows dancing in the hollows of his face as he takes in this dulcet aurium. If he could, George would reach for him, Adam and his Maker, and embed their silhouettes before the plaster dried. This moment lies in the honeyed wake of his own self-destruction, but he is no longer suspended in its dizzying medium alone. 

The silence that follows is one that begins to shift, Dream shifting with it. The fingers in his hair slowly slide back, trailing beneath his ear until they can tenderly cup his jaw so that he can ensure eye contact even when his thumb ghosts along George’s lip, prompting the appearance of peach on the apples of his cheeks. It’s an intimate touch: one that goes further than usual. The pad of his thumb is gentle in its movement, softly stroking George’s pleasure-bitten bottom lip, and no words have to be exchanged for him to carefully part his lips. 

George looks up at him through ebony eyelashes, doe-like and wondrous, and waits. There is vulnerability like this: mouth open in submission while Dream dares to touch him like this, slowly and deliberately. After going so long without this subdued side of his, George has to put in conscious effort to prevent his eyes from growing glassy. And, of course, Dream holds him there for a time, makes him wait: as though the sheer proximity and forbidden nature of his touch isn’t enough to set George aflame. 

He has to know what he’s doing, that he’s flirting with a line he had never dared to touch. What that means, George hasn’t the slightest, but he can’t help it when his lip trembles as Dream slides his thumb across the plush surface. It is simultaneously the lilt of possession, the quiet side of dominance, while also embodying the rosehip soothe of Dream once he’d reduced George to a tearful, babbling mess. He lingers there for far too long, and George’s heart slowly crawls up his throat until it feels like it’s starting to drag his lungs with it. 

Thankfully, just before the penetrating edge of his gaze starts to shred George where he lays, Dream releases him so that he can reach for the gag instead. His weight shifts against the mattress as he adjusts, tugging the silicone up and over George’s chin. “Open wider for me.” Is the only instruction that is given, and he listens. 

The weight of it feels foreign against his mouth as he fits his teeth around the gag, letting the smooth surface of the silicone press his tongue, which tries to feel out its shape, against the soft floor of his mouth. It isn’t too much of a strain on his jaw, but it is undoubtedly strange. At least the taste of it is fairly neutral; he’d been worried it would instead taste of artifice. 

“You feel okay?” The other interrupts his state of discovery, studying his reactions down to the slightest twinge of his eyebrows. 

George nods, blinking slowly as he gets his bearings. This isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, truthfully. His fingers tighten around that coin, sensing out the ridges running along its edges, and he slightly shifts in his bonds just to reassure himself that they were there. He can’t actually say yes , but he hums out something close to it, and that seems to please Dream, who lets out a rogue breath he had clearly been holding in anxious suspension. 

It’s at this point when George realizes that Dream has neglected to tell him the plan for the rest of the night. Granted, the unknown was half the allure in placing his pleasure entirely in someone else’s hands, but he normally had at least a vague idea of what they were doing. Was he even going to fuck him like this? George is thankful that he still has his sight to help him figure things out as they come to him, but the strange anticipatory swirl in his stomach is one that he hasn’t felt since that first night he stood trembling on Dream’s stoop.

Always so painfully in tune, it’s like the other man can sense his disquiet, and a hand is petting through his hair in no time at all, twisting dark locks between its digits. “I’m not gonna be too rough with you tonight,” Dream decides, softly scratching his scalp as he does so. “It’ll give us a minute to get used to each other again, and you can’t communicate all that well right now, you know?”

George shoots him a look that can only be described as his best attempt at a huff in the form of a facial expression. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, doll,” He soothes, fingers immediately tightening to tug on George’s hair, making him quietly groan. “I didn’t say I would go easy on you; you still have to earn your pleasure. You just won’t be all that sore in the morning.” 

He wants to pout: to whine, to complain. He loves it when Dream marks him up with his hands or whatever instrument he’d chosen to torment George with that night; he loves waking up with aching flesh as a tangible reminder of what had transpired. Granted, the transformation of his attitudes toward pain had taken a little bit of time and patience, but he craves it now, and he can only hope that its revocation is a temporary measure. So, he nods in acquiescence, and is grateful for whatever it is that he’ll be getting. 

Dream’s response isn’t another bout of words. Rather, it’s his touch: shifting, soft and sweet. Fingers trail down his scalp once more to ghost over the ridges and hollows of his face, appreciating the curve of his cheekbones and the crook of his spread jaws, wrenched apart by the gag. Despite the lilting docility of his touches, a part of it still feels cruel, somehow, like he’s just a lovely possession being appraised: a toy that Dream has chosen to take his time with. He’s made George feel like this before, of course, but the inability to speak truly heightens his impression of his own helplessness. Here he is, spread out before another, and entirely at his mercy. 

But, even with that acknowledgement, he can’t help but notice the particular gentility in Dream’s contact, as though he’s afraid George will shatter if he presses too hard or catches a fingernail on his lip. “I’m going to take my time with you tonight,” He declares, quickly skipping over his throat to trace his prominent collarbones. George notices his skittishness. “Make you wish that you could beg.”

He whimpers.

“It’s okay, baby,” Dream soothes immediately, fingers starting to tease their presence on his chest and summoning gooseflesh in their wake. “It’ll feel good, I promise. You want me to make you feel good, don’t you?”

George squeezes his eyes shut and nods before he’s even finished the sentence. He thinks back to all the times in these few desolate weeks that he’d desperately wanted to hear Dream’s voice, wanted to feel his touch: how no attempts at pleasure had felt like enough on his own, leaving him insatiable and empty. Now, he finally has Dream’s hands on him again, and his voice in his ear, and his sheets pressed against the arch of his spine. He’ll tolerate walking across proverbial smoldering coals if it means getting to have this again. He doesn’t just crave him anymore, he needs him. 

His eagerness seems to satisfy Dream, who is still infuriatingly clothed. He supposes that the sheer differential between them, one bound and entirely exposed and one fully covered and in possession of his agency, is part of the point. Nonetheless, George hungers to see him, dusted with freckles and softness disguising his strength. 

Sunkissed hands continue to drag, taunting him as they skirt around any meaningful stimulation and make him wriggle with feather-light touches. Dream is simply feeling him up, there is no two ways about it, and the way his cock is starting to harden against his thigh once more is proof that it’s working. If the other notices this development, he doesn’t point it out just yet, saving it for a future provocation. Instead, he continues to crawl his palms across George’s chest, which continues to arch up in a bid for more stimulation in return. 

“So sensitive,” Dream remarks, thumbs inching painfully close to where George needs them. “I’m not even properly touching you yet, and you look like you want to squirm right off the bed.”

George makes a muffled noise—one whose meaning he’s not even sure of himself—and looks up at him with pleading pooled heavy in his dark irises: Please, touch me. Please. 

The blond hums in contemplation, pads shifting to the delicate scratch of fingernails solely to vary sensation and keep George guessing. “Where do you want me to touch you?” Dream asks, a barbarous undercurrent of dominance belying his intentions. 

“Here?” His nails drag down George’s torso, leaving rose marks behind on their way to the dip of his waist. He shakes his head. 

“Not there? Alright,” Dream is moving again, quickly this time as he etches faint tracks all the way down to his knees, skipping his hips and his thighs entirely. “Here?”

George mewls, wiggling his hips as much as he can, given his vulnerable positioning. 

He entones mock contemplation, drawing circles on George’s shins. “Impatient little thing, aren’t you?” Dream muses with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You won’t tell me what you want, and then have the audacity to be fussy like this.”

He tries to speak against the gag, to brat and spit fire back at the paradox of his words, but neither his tongue nor his lips are capable of shaping his sounds into anything even resembling words. He shoots a glare at Dream as he does so, only undermined by the want layered in his eyes. 

Dream laughs at that, so aloof and uncaring despite the fact that his own arousal is barely being kept down by his waistband, likely still sticky with lube from earlier. There may be the barest hint of blush darkening his cheeks, but he quite convincingly acts as though it weren’t there. Instead, he has the audacity to shoosh him, petting one of his calves as he does so. “I’ll get there eventually, Georgie. You just need to wait for it, and you have plenty of practice with waiting.” 

He honestly can’t tell whether he is referring to all the times past that Dream has ruthlessly teased him or if he is speaking about the weeks of separation that had cleft them in two. 

“I wonder if I can get you to cry tonight,” Dream wonders aloud, hands moving again in their infuriating unpredictability up, up, up. “I’ve missed seeing your cheeks streaked with tears. You never look prettier than when you’re like that, you know.”

George is making more soft noises, futility now accepted, and he tries his best to arch his chest up into the barest hint of tactility that Dream provides. He knows that his hopes of getting any fruitful touch even on his thighs, let alone to have that yawning ache inside of him filled again, are far beyond his reach for the time being. It’s clear that Dream is, in all likelihood, going to tease him for a good hour or so, until he wants to claw the ropes binding him to shreds, and there is little to nothing that he can do about it. 

He isn’t sure just how long this infuriating touching goes on for, but he knows that it’s far too long. George is trembling after a time, hypersensitive to where Dream will grant him contact when he’s feeling generous but unable to predict just where that will be. He’s had hands tousling his hair, tracing over the veins in his forearm, counting his ribs one by one, but every part of him that positively aches to be touched is left infuriatingly alone. He’s hard and leaking against his skin now, twitching in vain and squirming with desperation, and he isn’t blind to the animalistic way that Dream regards him. With every hopeless cry and groan, Dream’s gaze only grows hungrier. 

“I expected you to clean up,” He suddenly tuts, on the heels of silence only interrupted by George’s quiet sounds of want. “When I sent you back here and did your laundry for you. But, here you are, with your own cum still on your stomach. That’s pretty fucking filthy, George.”

The man in question lets out a noise of protest, cheeks heating in shame as he confronts the truth of it. 

“Guess you were that desperate to get me back inside of you, huh? What, you thought I’d see you all spread out for me, messy and wanting, and I’d just cave in? Forget how you deserve to be treated and just fuck you without any preamble?”

He had been half-expecting this to be mostly rhetorical, but Dream pauses there and intensely watches him, clearly wanting George to give him some input. All that he can provide is a shake of his head. 

“Good,” He removes his touch entirely, without warning, and George wants to cry. “I’m glad you remember your place. I was starting to worry that you’d forgotten.”

George shakes his head again, nearly frantic. Please, touch me. Please. I’m begging you. Please, hear me.

Then, just as quickly as he’d taken it away, Dream is touching him again, and he wants to sob in relief as slightly-calloused thumbs finally brush over his nipples, sending electricity through his body. George arches into the sensation, eyes rolling back while their lids snap shut, and makes some ungodly noise that he will likely be embarrassed of later on. 

Dream doesn’t usually toy with him like this; to be fair, George’s chest isn’t normally all that sensitive, so his incentive is lacking. Tonight, though, after so long deprived, each tug sends noise spilling from his throat and pleasure straight to his hips. It’s ecstasy. 

The other, of course, just has to comment on it. “I should tease you more often, baby. You’re normally pretty responsive anyway, but this is just something special.”

He moans around the gag, relishing the way that Dream flicks and pinches just a little too much to be comfortable. It goes without saying that he would prefer the stimulation elsewhere, but he’s been deprived for far too long to truly care. Right now, Dream is touching him, properly touching him, at long last, and he hopes the worst of the teasing is done. 

Dream treats him roughly enough to make tears prick the corner of his eyes, just like he’d wanted. Flesh aches in protest as it’s twisted and pulled between a thumb and a forefinger, but he’s only getting more turned on, more desperate to have Dream fuck him again. He craves his proximity, rather than this distant and restrained presence, reaching out instead of pulling George in. 

It’s with concerted effort that he manages to pick a word that doesn’t require all that much delicacy, and forces it out from behind the gag: a warbled version of “more.” 

“This isn’t enough?” It takes Dream a moment to decipher what it was exactly that he’d said, but the moment he does, George fears that he’s made an irrevocable mistake. “You’ve already come, George. You should be thanking me, not asking for more.”

The whimper that he makes in protest is not something that he is proud of.

Dream only sighs. “What to do with you…” It’s accompanied with a harsh pinch that sends a tear rolling down George’s temple and a muffled yelp from his throat. “I won’t give you what you want, but I suppose I can be a little more generous.”

It turns out that “a little more generous” is a synonym for making George scream. In hardly a moment, Dream’s teeth are replacing one of his hands, which immediately wraps itself around his cock. He thrashes desperately against the sheets, completely blindsided by the sudden onslaught of stimulation. The tempo of his hand is immediately quick and almost clinical in its constancy, his strokes short and even in a way that he’s never done before. Normally, everything is drawn out, and the rest of their evening up until now only buttressed that point, but this change has George bucking wildly into his grip, stuck between wanting more pleasure and wanting less intense friction on his already-sensitive cock.

He doesn’t even want to think about the noises that are leaking past the gag at this point. George has lost all pretense of a filter, simply crying out in overstimulated pain and pleasure as Dream’s teeth tug on his nipple and split his own attention. He’s writhing frantically against the sheets, Dream not making even a single effort to keep him still and only continuing his onslaught. His thighs are trembling, muscles locked tight as he’s overwhelmed. 

Throughout all of this, Dream stays silent, mouth busy with the nub of abused flesh on George’s chest. All that he can hear is the wet sound of the hand on his cock and his own wonton pants, muffled by silicone. 

He’s sensitive enough that it takes a while for the pain of overstimulation to be fully outweighed by the tightness rapidly building low in his hips. But, as always, it eventually does , and he can feel how quickly precum beads at his tip, wiped away by the all-too expert twist of Dream’s thumb at the tailend of every stroke. He does his best to signal that he’s getting close again, less blindsided than last time, and tries to hold his hips still in a bid to decrease just how quickly he gets feeling. 

It seems, though, that any warning measures are absolutely useless, because Dream chimes in almost immediately after George sends him a pleading look, the moment his eyes glance upward. “I know you, George,” He begins, gaze suddenly intense and unwavering. “I’ve fucked you enough times that I can tell when you’re close, and I know, for a fact, that you still have more time before you come.”

George whines out; if Dream is right, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. It feels like he’s about to come hard enough that it stings. 

“I know you,” The reassurance is somehow even steadier than the original statement, even though he swears that Dream has begun to stroke him faster. “I know every single one of your little tells, down to which side you bite your lip on and the angle of your fucking chin. I’ll stop when I know I can stop, but you are not going to come, do you understand me?”

Another tear track carves its way down his face. 

“Do you understand me, George?” As if he’s punctuating his point, he chooses that exact moment to pull his right nipple hard enough to make him howl . 

Unable to do anything else, George frantically nods, wanting the pain to stop while simultaneously acknowledging that its sharpness was likely the only thing preventing him from crashing over the edge. But he has to trust him, he promised he would. Dream knows him. Dream knows. 

True to his word, the other man keeps him right on the edge for at least another few minutes. It’s just enough stimulation to have him hanging by his fingernails, but never quite enough to let him fall into oblivion, and it’s infuriating. Every second of pleasure is one he has to fight for, and his already-depleted body trembles with the exertion of the struggle. Dream’s teeth are back, perpetually reminding him of their existence and, even in his haze, he can tell that his right pectoral will be littered with the smallest marks of lust when the morning comes. 

Then, it’s becoming too much. He cries out against the gag, his own teeth scrabbling against its spit-slick surface for purchase, and does everything he can to warn Dream. I’m close, I’m close, I’m so close, please don’t stop, I’m—

Dream pulls back to avoid the tantrum he will inevitably throw, thrashing against the sheets and trying to yank out of his bonds. He’s so close that he can feel it, taste it and, as he flails, he swears that a brush of air would be enough to finish him. Tears of frustration stream from his eyes and he can’t help but sob at the loss of what could have been euphoric. His vision is blurred from the saline, but when he looks over to Dream, still perched on the edge of his own bed, he’s smirking , clearly beyond content with himself. 

“I told you, George.” 

He just cries in response, cock throbbing and pelvic muscles screaming in protest, and closes his eyes to wallow in his denial. Even the soft hand that comes to cup his jaw isn’t enough to stop the flow of salt. Dream has edged him before, of course, but this is by far the most brutal one he’s ever pushed him to. 

“Come on, now,” The other does his best to soothe, stroking his cheek and the subtle dip of his waist. “It’s okay, doll. You did so well for me, and you’ll keep on doing well for me, I just know it.”

Wait. Keep on doing well? George’s eyes shoot back open, wide and slightly fearful. Surely he can’t be asking him to go through that again; he’s already screamingly oversensitive and he doesn’t even have to look down to know that the head of his cock is starting to grow so flushed it’s red. 

“You can do it,” Dream heartens, golden eyes softening as he does his best to calm him. “I know it’s hard, but you can, see?” 

He shakes his head frantically; he doesn’t think he can handle that again. No, he knows that he can’t handle that again. 

“You can,” The hand on his face starts to move down again, and George’s breathing picks up in anticipation. “And you will. You’re such a good boy, George.”

That same hand is on his cock again, and he shrieks as he attempts to squirm out from under him, but the rope is just as secure as it always is. George may be overwhelmed, may be far too sensitive to be touched, may be struggling to get away, but he does not stop any of it: the coin remains tightly clasped in his hand. He’s so turned on right now that he can hardly see straight, despite the pain and the unrelenting movement. 

This game is a merciless one, and there is no way for him to win it. All that George can do is shake and cry and silently beg for it to end, for him to be brought to his end, but Dream steadfastly refuses. He’s at least begun varying the pace of his strokes, granting George small reprieves every now and then, and he’s thankful for that much. His entire body burns with sensation, and he feels as though he’s being flayed alive by nothing more than the simple movements of Dream’s single hand. 

“So fucking beautiful like this,” Dream murmurs, nearly breathless as he takes in the sight before him. “ Fuck , I’ve missed making you fall apart.” 

Truth be told, George can hardly even pay attention to his words because he’s already approaching the edge again, the amount of time beginning to reduce as his body’s tolerance lowers over time. “ Hnngh! ” He tries to tell Dream something. He isn’t entirely sure whether it’s a plea to stop or a plea to keep going. 

The other doesn’t listen at first, just continuing to twist his wrist and smear the latest rivulet of precum that he’d just forced out of George’s cock across the head. “It’s much more fun edging you like this instead of when I’m fucking you,” He comments, stopping his hand right at the base and squeezing as he feels it twitch in vain. “Look at me, Georgie."

He does as he’s told, craning his neck to get a look at Dream and his ministrations. 

“Because I get to see you struggle right at that very last moment before you come,” He explains, moving his hand agonizingly slowly once more: a ghost of the touch he’d been receiving before. “You’re so fucking desperate to finish, and you’re so devastated that I’m denying you that pleasure. And I get to watch as your body tries to finish what I’ve started, but it can’t. Do you know why it can’t?”

George watches the movements along his shaft grow even sloppier as Dream swipes a finger down to gather spent cum on its pad and use it to slick his movements. “Because I’m the only one who decides when you come, George. When you’re in my bed, you belong to me, do you understand? You put your trust in me, and I am going to use every last drop so long as I have it.”

Then, between the simple friction and the sheer possession in Dream’s voice, the moment is upon them once more, but he gets to watch this time as his only source of stimulation is dropped all at once and his cock, so flushed that the entire length has turned several shades darker, violently jerks in a phantom of what he wants it to do. He can feel it, right there, right fucking there, but as he sees himself twitch into empty air, unable to spill, he knows that it’s a lost cause yet again. The denial hurts, both mentally and physically, but he does trust Dream, and he knows that everything will be okay in the end. Even though he can’t speak, and he’s so hard that he feels like his nerves are fraying, he knows that everything will be okay. Dream will take care of him. 

“I can tell: you see it now,” The man in question chuckles, just out of focus in his periphery. “Good boy. Your body listens to me , not to you.”

George thinks back to who he was just a few months ago. He’d always been fairly shy in bed: simple and straightforward in his preferences. He never caused a ruckus, and he always enjoyed taking his equal portion of pleasure with his partner, whoever they may be or whatever position he may be in. But, things were different with Dream. George’s pleasure was always the focus of everything, when it came down to it. All of Dream’s efforts, even if they put him in agony, even if they frightened him at times, even if they made him cry, were all for the sake of George being so overwhelmed with pleasure that he lost the ability to think of anything except excruciating rapture when he came. He received that unbelievable gift and, in return, he gave himself over, wholly and completely, to Dream. 

He knows that this is the reason he embarked on this entire journey. Not for the pleasure, necessarily—that was just a very welcome bonus—but for this exchange in power. He wanted, needed to feel this surrender, and their weeks of separation had reminded him of that more intensely than anything before it. His body did listen only to Dream, because it belonged only to Dream when they entered this space of tacit contract. He was his, body and soul. 

“Tell me, do you want me back inside?” Dream asks, sincere in his questioning and making sure that George isn’t too overwhelmed to move forward. 

He nods, still feeling empty after sitting on his cock for something like half an hour. 

“You know that it won’t make this any easier for you, George,” Dream clarifies, quickly reaching for the bottle of lube he’d left out on the bedside table before the other had even arrived that night. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He nods again. George remembers full well how agonizing it was to have Dream driving into him and causing that unique sort of deep pleasure that he could never quite achieve on his own, only to have it all yanked away right when he needed it the most. It had broken him the last time Dream had tried to edge him this much, but he thinks that he can be stronger this time: he understands more clearly now what it means to place himself in Dream’s care and, while he knows it will be fraught with frustration, he knows that it’s worth it. 

Before unceremoniously wiping his hand off on George’s thigh, as he always does, he slides in three fingers without warning to make sure that George is still ready for him. He takes them without issue, thankfully, but the spontaneity of the action makes him arch and twitch. Dream scissors him for all but a moment before deeming him suitably prepped and withdrawing entirely. 

He stays stretched and bound on the mattress while he watches Dream pull his dick out to quickly slick himself so that he can finally, finally fill him the way he needs. He doesn’t undress, only emphasizing the yawning differential stretching between them. There is George: immobile, unable to speak, vulnerable and prone and entirely bare; then, there is Dream: unrestrained, tongue dripping lethality, clothed and in control. They could not be any more different in this moment, and George knows that he is entirely at his mercy, just like he’s wanted all along. He didn’t need the pain, even though it was a greatly appreciated addition, and he certainly didn’t need Dream crushing his windpipe to feel so owned. 

Foolish. He was so fucking foolish. 

Then, Dream is climbing on top of him and caging him on all sides, limbs tangling with his as he takes a moment to best situate himself: it’s an inconvenience of these anchored positions that George had never really taken the time to think about. But, once he is settled, his presence is overwhelming.

A rough grip reaches for George’s chin and forces it down just enough so that he can look Dream in the eyes. But, despite the harshness of the hold, his voice is gentle when he speaks. “Are you still alright? This isn’t too much?”

He meets his gaze with sincerity dripping in sickly lust and nods his head. George wants nothing more than to have that ache inside of him relieved, at least for a time, before it’s inevitably made worse by Dream’s calculated thrusts. He’s filled so many hopeless nights with lackluster fantasies since that fateful night so many weeks ago, and none of them had even begun to approach the soaring heights that Dream threw him to whenever they were together. Nothing was enough, and he hadn’t realized quite how bad it was until this moment, where the need threatens to swallow him whole. His hunger is about to consume him. 

When Dream presses into him, it’s slow and controlled, and George can’t help the drawn out moan of pure, ecstatic relief that explodes from him. The gag may have succeeded in muffling its cadence, but petty silicone could never even begin to beat back the lust rapidly swarming his mind. He can feel the smirk emanating from Dream even though his own eyes have slipped shut

Dream rarely ever takes his time at this point in the night, leaving George to deal with the glorious burn of the stretch on his own, but his movements are of a much lower tempo than normal. He’s giving him time to adjust, even though George can feel himself open up around him for the second time that night without issue, and the consideration almost feels out of place when taking their typical dynamic into account.

Trying to remedy the lack of stimulation, he wiggles his hips, feeling Dream’s cock throb inside of him, but the other does nothing to indicate that he’s even heard his tacit request. He continues on unfettered, only going so far as to lightly grip George’s hip: enough to make him aware of his presence and that he needs to stop moving, but not enough to actually enforce it. It’s a reminder, Dream giving him a gentle nudge while still providing the leeway that he knows George needs whenever he’s torn to shreds in this particular manner. 

He pushes forward slowly, thrusts slack but measured, and it’s clear to George that it’s mostly exploratory. He’s more than certain that Dream is simply taking his time, remembering how the body beneath him reacts, as he tries to find the exact angle that will render each of his movements even more poignant in the long dance of making George fall apart like this. It is remembrance and it is searching for burnt memories, singed at the edges. It’s frustrating, in the end; Dream isn’t even giving him the illusion of pursuing his satisfaction. 

Then: white-hot brilliance. “That gag does absolutely nothing to muffle you, you know,” Dream taunts as electricity arcs through George’s body and he feels as though he’s been set alight at long last. “It lets through every little whimper and cry. You sound so pathetic, baby.”

Of course, Dream is right; and of course, now that he’s found his prostate again and knows exactly how to angle his hips, George acknowledges that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse. 

Every single movement—careful, deliberate, exact—brings a new flash of ecstasy. George feels his mind begin to float again, bathing in rivers of nepenthe and poppy petals, the sorrow and the pitching agony of the past few weeks vanishing in their wake. The pleasure spreads through his veins, heart beating furiously from within his ribcage to make sure that it fills every single inch of him until his nerves finally light, strontium and copper eating away at the edges until the ensuing flame scorches his very core.

How has he lived without this? How has he denied his body the sweltering sensation that it so clearly needs? Dream fills him up and makes him feel so overwhelmingly complete that it scares him. He wants to stay in this bed forever, surrounded by the man he craves so badly it hurts, and lose himself to hedonistic thralls, wrapped up in sense and screaming fulfillment. 

The noises he begins to make are obscene: pathetic whimpers and drawn out groans that are only shapeless because he’s biting down on a small ball of silicone. Their volume is far from abated, and he’s aware of just how filthy he must seem like this. Dream will tell him as much in due time, and he will be nothing but entirely correct. 

“ Fuck ,” Dream hisses, stopping his thrusts to grind inside of George for several long moments, clearly trying to stave off his own inevitable collapse into pleasure. “God, I’ve missed you.”

George moans out in response, bucking his hips down to encourage him to move again, which surprisingly receives no punishment. Falling into bed has been brutal, but Dream has limited how much pain he’s given him tonight; whether that is an exception or a new trend, he has no honest idea. 

“You’re such a good fuck- take me so fucking well,” Dream’s filter slowly falls, words growing breathier with honesty as he speeds back up again, jolting George’s body with the force of his thrusts. “Never met someone who feels so perfect.”

He somehow blushes at that, pressing one cheek into the pillow below him as the praise fuels the fire rapidly building in his belly for the nth time. George doesn’t even have to know that his cock is dripping, head flushed nearly violet and desperate for a release that Dream will deny him for as long as possible. He grows closer with every harsh brush against his prostate, but it seems to continually be just shy of enough. 

Dream stills sporadically, letting filth fall from his tongue as he catches his breath and extends their rebuilding of trust as long as he possibly can. “Close, aren’t you?” He finally asks, waiting for George to frantically nod before continuing on with his words. “You look so pretty like this: desperate and kept right on the edge for so long. I almost like it as much as I like you covered in my marks, baby.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, as humiliated as he is turned on. 

A hand grabs for his face, tilting him away from his temporary refuge in the pillows and forcing George to look at him; pads swipe through the streaks of spit that have escaped from behind the gag. “You’ll get to come again, I promise,” It’s punctuated by a thrust that forces him up the bed by several centimeters. “But if I just give it to you, I can’t really make you see the stars you want to, Georgie.”

He just nods in his hold, accepting and rationalizing his reality. Dream will take care of him well, will make sure that everything feels absolutely perfect when it finally comes to an end, and he has absolutely no problem letting him control every bit of it. George’s input isn’t needed because the other knows exactly what he would want to say. 

This is perfect. Dream is perfect. How could he ever jeopardize this?

The hand lilts down his jaw in a way that could almost be called loving before Dream withdraws and resumes his frame-breaking pace, forcing George’s spine to arch so deeply that his shoulders practically leave the mattress. 

“So good for me, and you don’t even get to talk back now,” Dream muses, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back home once again. “Should’ve done this ages ago. I know everything about how your body works, doll: I can take care of you better than anyone else can.”

Yes! He does his best to scream it through the gag, achieving only limited execution, but he can tell that its intended recipient receives his message loud and clear when he smirks. “That’s right. And you know that I can, too. No one here is in denial about what you are, and what you deserve.”

George sobs out another long trail of moans, the edge coming into view yet again. He’s beginning to grow exhausted at this point, muscles screaming from the repeated thrashing and clenching, but the thrill and the adrenaline of the situation keeps him keyed up, no release available outside of the aborted yells of ecstasy. The crash will likely be brutal once they’re done, but he couldn’t fucking care less at this point: Dream fucks him better than anyone he’s ever met, and George comes to the conclusion that there is no better cause worth sacrificing his emotions for than this. 

“You deserve to be treated like this,” Dream huffs, the flush on his face indicative of the cracks rapidly beginning to form in his façade. “Tied up, unable to speak, just like a little toy for me to use. You serve me so well, George: so perfect, so fucking perfect .” 

The subconscious echo of his own thoughts makes his eyes roll back into their sockets. 

“I’m close,” A murmur comes from above him. “Can’t hold out much longer, ‘m sorry.”

Why he’s apologetic, George has absolutely no clue. He wants nothing more than to feel Dream paint his walls with white heat, and to finally come so hard that he might fall unconscious from the feeling of it all crashing down onto him. So, he just moans in response, pitching it upwards at the end so that his desires to be finished are clear. 

“What, does my baby want to come?” He taunts, a bead of sweat dripping from the tip of his nose until it lands on George’s cum-streaked stomach. “You did come earlier without permission… I’m not sure if you deserve it.”

That nearly sends him into a panic. Somewhere beneath it all, in the scraps of rationality that he hangs onto in these scenes of theirs, he knows that it’s an empty threat, but all that he can feel right now is the screaming desire to spill and the yawning desperation of denial. He cries out, tears flooding inky doe eyes as he lets loose his muffled pleas for release. He wants it; no, he needs it. George feels like his world will come to an end if he’s left like this for any longer. 

Dream shushes him, gently cupping his waist with one hand to reassure him. “I’ll let you come, don’t worry. I was just teasing.”

The confirmation floods him with relief and another burst of hormones as he feels that sweet, tingling shadow of pleasure beginning to crest in his blood. 

“Wanna see how pretty you look as you bite down around that gag when you lose yourself,” Dream’s hips tilt just slightly upwards, and he’s directly hitting George’s prostate with every single cruel thrust. “Come for me, baby. Come for me : that’s an order.”

George always follows orders. 

The orgasm hits him so hard that it almost hurts, every single nerve inside of him screaming as his vision whites out and he feels cum splatter against his chin, Dream fucking him through it the entire time until he himself stills deep inside of him, filling him with sweet sanctimony. Nails dig deep into his hips, pulling him down so that Dream is sheathed entirely within him, relishing the way he twitches and weakly spasms. 

Dream collapses on top of him without warning, strength giving out at last as he buries his head into the crook of George’s neck: a reversal of their earlier situation in the living room. His breath is ragged, gulping down air like a dying man while he breathes in George’s shampoo. They are silent, only pants and overstimulated sighs exchanged between them for the time being, and they are both happy to remain that way for a short while. 

It’s achingly intimate, these few moments just after the intensity ends. Neither of them have yet descended to Earth, and they swim in the delicate swirls of the clouds together, hand in hand. It has its own sort of beauty that the sex itself can never possess and, truth be told, it’s George’s favorite part. 

But, as all things do, it must eventually come to an end, and the blond slowly props himself up on one arm as the other goes to release the clasp prying George’s jaws apart. It gives in hardly a moment, and his cheeks burn in shame when the little ball is pulled away along with a long trail of saliva, finally letting him suck in air through his mouth once more. George immediately swallows, briefly struggling to remember how to use his tongue and his teeth for anything other than gripping onto the bit. 

“Fuck…” He rasps, voice crackled from its lack of use. 

“We did just fuck, you’re right.” Dream smirks, unbelievably amused with his objectively terrible joke. 

The look that George fixes him with only succeeds in sending him into full-on hysterics, wheezing pouring from his mouth as he swims in oxytocin and his own terrible sense of humor. 

“Such an idiot,” He grumbles, swallowing some of the excess saliva that had pulled against the hollows of his cheeks. “Why are you like this?”

Dream just shrugs, still laughing in that beautiful way of his. “You love it, don’t give me that,” He jokes, straightening himself further. “I’m gonna pull out, get you untied and cleaned up, okay?”

“Don’ need to clean up,” He mumbles in response. “Just this once, let’s just go to bed.”

“But you’ll be—”

“Missed you.” He interjects, hoping that it will put an end to the conversation, and the blush tipping Dream’s ears proves that he succeeded. 

“For what it’s worth, I missed you too,” His voice is softer than silk, earnest in a way that George hadn’t been expecting at the end of this. “I- I’m really glad you trusted me with this. It really meant a lot.”

George hums, head lolling to the side as he fights screaming oversensitivity when Dream finally pulls back, cum leaking out in his wake. “Just wanted you to trust me again. Didn’t wanna lose this.” He’s fading fast, barely coherent as sleep and a need for physical affection begin to claw at him. 

Words fail the two of them after this, all of Dream’s work and his physical touch absent of any auditory interruptions. When they wrap each other up in their own arms, completely uncaring of the mess between their chests, George knows that words are no longer needed here, in this moment. He had given Dream his voice this time, but perhaps it was sometimes best to leave it in his care. Perhaps that way, his past sins could have been saved. 

Notes:

Long time no see ;)

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Chapter 12: Attempts at Ataraxia

Summary:

The day breaks after reunion and with it comes a flood of uncertainty about what the future holds: not just for their arrangement, but for so much more.

Notes:

hey everyone- long time, no see, huh?

I don't think anybody had “snapdragons comes back” on their 2k24 bingo card. I have no shame in telling you that I certainly didn’t.

anyway, I suppose the only thing to say is: I hope those of you who remain enjoy! a lot of people have left, a lot of people haven’t, and an amount of people that still continues to shock me have left but still care enough to come back to this ridiculous piece I started writing on a whim one day in 2021. I don’t think I’ll ever be fully able to express how thankful I am for that support, and how much of a privilege it is to have it. thank you to each and every one of you for that.

love,

ess

 

and huge thank you's to scoops and bronze for beta-ing for me!!

It’s the best night of sleep that George has had in weeks, and it comes to an end far, far too soon. 

When he wakes to the sound of an ambulance briefly screaming its way down Dream’s block on frost-slickened asphalt, he can’t quite gain his bearings for a long few moments, semi-darkness blurring the line between sleep and consciousness. But, as the fog of an interrupted sleep cycle dissipates, George slowly pieces the world together anew and comes to realize that it is still some time before sunrise. Propping himself up on an elbow and craning to see the ancient digital alarm clock on Dream’s nightstand (he has never once seen it used for its intended purpose, and George isn’t quite sure why he still has it taking up valuable tabletop real estate), he’s met with the time, blinking blue: 4:53 AM. 

A gutterally frustrated groan builds in his throat, nearly clawing its way past his teeth, but the soft, gentle snores that occasionally break out next to him manage to stop him. Dream is still dead to the world, a round cheek smooshed against the pillow and wrinkling his lips into the strange shape responsible for the soft purrs that he could hear. He’s completely lax like this, beautiful in his unguardedness, and George feels no shame as he takes the opportunity to draw his gaze down the soft planes of his features to admire that the shadowed stubble clinging to his jaw had grown slightly thicker overnight, how the faded dusting of freckles crept across the bridge of his nose, slightly Aquiline.

At some point in the course of the night, one or both of them had rolled, winding up with George slightly drawn away from his warmth as he curled into the other pillow, but with their legs still somehow entwined to bridge the distance. It will be awkward to extricate himself from their limb-laden embrace, to say the least, and that’s not even taking into account the emotional toll of it all. 

With Dream lost to sleep right now, it’s easy to play pretend, like he’s still a child escaping into whatever outlandish worlds he dreamt up for no other reason than he was bored. But, it was no longer rescuing some lonesome prince (although his parents only ever thought they were princesses) from a gnarled dragon or galavanting in the ruins of some long-lost civilization. No, now the only fantasy he seems capable of having these days consists of things such as this:

 

His day has been long, and it is cold. Wind howls in from the lake, funneled through skyscraped streets until it’s nearly loud enough to deafen. The temperature is low enough that Dream’s windows are frosted over, blurring the glow from neighbors across the way and tail lights flashing their intent to turn. George wakes with sirens ringing in his ears, and the shifting fuzz of semi-consciousness has yet to yield when he feels a warm arm wrap around his waist. 

“Back to bed, Georgie,” Dream murmurs, his voice slurred with sleep. “Too early.”

He can’t help but smile softly. “You know I’m not good at falling back asleep once I’m up, Clay.”

One arm becomes two, and it only takes a shift in weight on the mattress before there’s an entire body pressed up against his, lips brushing the juncture of his neck. “Come on, now,” Dream’s breath is torrid, his heartbeat strong and slow where their bodies connect. “You know I’m stronger than you, love. I just won’t let go of your pretty little waist, keep you here all to myself.”

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.” He sounds like he’s scolding him, but George’s voice is painfully gentle. 

“What’s ridiculous is that you’re awake at, like, five in the morning,” The retort is spoken right into his ear and it’s accompanied by wandering hands growing even more adventurous. It’s nothing devious: more like Dream is simply appreciating him, holding him a few different ways over. “You know how much I love laying in bed with you in the morning. Don’t deprive me of my single greatest joy in life.”

George leans back into his embrace, the soft expanses of the other’s bare chest compelling him to rest against it. “I thought your single greatest joy in life was getting to kiss me, or something.”

“Close second,” Dream shoots back quickly, and he can feel the smile where it’s stamped into his shoulder. “ Super close second, but still second.”

He just hums, enjoying their closeness and the comfort of it. “Maybe…maybe some more sleep wouldn’t hurt.”

His boyfriend doesn’t say anything, just pulls him down toward the mattress and turns him halfway so that George is lying on his back, looking up into golden eyes half-obscured by an atrocious mess of curls. “Your hair’s godawful right now.” He can’t help but reach up to brush some of the mop aside and trail his fingers down to cup his cheek.

Dream cracks up at that, infectious smile breaking out when he laughs. Instead of offering a witty response, he simply dips his head down until their noses touch, hesitating for hardly a moment to savor before he kisses him. It’s soft and slow and all things sweet, even if sleep still clings to their tongues and George’s scratchy chin is unshaven. He can feel Dream smiling into it, and he’s sure Dream can feel the way George affectionately trails his heel up the other’s calf. 

He’s not sure how long they spend like this: intertwined in the tender, sensual sort of passion that George craves more than water, more than air. It isn’t about sex or lust or anything that plain, it’s only the two of them together at their barest, most vulnerable selves. 

But, kissing eventually turns to whispered words and quiet laughter, before it devolves into Dream slumping on top of him, too tired to be as attentive as he’d like to be. 

“Wanna go back to sleep.” Dream pleads, and it’s easy to agree.

 

He wishes it were as easy in the real world, where the body next to his somehow feels impossibly far away despite the fact that they’re stuck together from thigh to ankle. Some invisible divider has been erected between them and whether it’s Dream that has built it or George or some combination of the two, he can’t even begin to say. It’s a strange thing, this: George wants to tear it to pieces while at the same time readying another trowelful of mortar to build it up even further. 

George takes his time in the moments such as these. He looks with intention when he studies the uneven way that the sun has stamped itself across his cheekbones, propped up on his elbow and thankful there is no one else awake to tease him for leering so openly. 

Now that he’s awake, George isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. The sun has yet to even rise over the endless lake, and their…activities last night kept both of them up late enough that he knows he should be dead to the world in sleep right now. Despite that, closing his eyes is just about the last thing his body wants to do. When he’s in his own bed and unable to sleep, he typically does one of two things: fuck around on his phone until either his alarm goes off or he dozes off again, or take a warm shower in the hopes that the steam will lull him back into lethargy. At the moment, George has no honest-to-god idea where his phone is (although, if he were a betting man, he’d say it was still tucked in his trousers, which are probably a ball on Dream’s living room floor), and taking a shower would mean disturbing the indelible warmth he’s currently tangled up with. Bit of a rock and a hard place, really. 

George carefully shifts so that he’s able to lie on his back, now side by side with Dream. He knows this ceiling well, but further memorizing it is the far less appealing alternative to what he really wants to do: curl back into Dream’s side so that the man in question will subconsciously pull him closer, like he always does when his inhibitions and high-flung ideas of cordiality flee him in rest. He has an uncanny knack for sensing when George needs touch, even if he’s not conscious to really detect it. 

The desire puts him at a bit of a crossroads. George feels so unbearably vulnerable right now, a combination of the delicate sheen of restraint he’s pretending to put on his feelings for Dream and the tender frailty he’s still riding from an intense scene following the pangs of absence. He needs comfort, but comfort scares him right now, at least when it comes from the person he craves it from the most. 

Fuck it , he thinks. Dream’s asleep; I can wallow in peace for a little while. 

The blond is thankfully a deep sleeper most nights, so George doesn’t exercise that much caution when he continues to roll until he’s on his side, admiring the soft planes of Dream’s body before shuffling his own form into that perfect space left just for him. The first thing he notices is the gentle rise and fall of Dream’s breathing when his cheek settles against his collarbone, the next is how a lax arm instinctively comes to settle against the dip of his waist to tug him closer. It’s such a time-worne routine now, even if they haven’t been doing this for all that long, relatively speaking. 

Dream’s skin is still a little tacky with salt, and he smells of sex. While none of it is necessarily bad, it should objectively make him grimace and slide out of his hold, but there’s a possessive sort of comfort to it. It’s the aftermath of them. In a few hours, they’ll get up and they’ll shower; whether together or separately, he can’t know. Dream’s citrus shampoo will waft from the cracked bathroom door into the flat, rivaling the smell of the bread George will undoubtedly accidentally toast to carbonized extremes when they sit down for breakfast. Once the sheets are washed, as they must be, no evidence will remain from last night and George’s presence will go with it. He doesn’t even get to leave bruises behind.

So, he’ll enjoy the fact they’re both sticky and a little gross for now, tangled up in bed while most of the world still dreams. 

Sleep doesn’t come for George, not really, only hours of fitful stops and starts. He feels comfortable, he feels safe, he feels considerably less distressed than he had been for these past few brutal weeks, but he just can’t settle. Instead, his mind works overtime. George can feel every single touch from last night tattooed on his skin, and he endeavors to catalog the best of them:

• A covetous hand lingered low on his back, creeping upward a single alary vertebra at a time until it slid beneath his jumper and into the dip of his spine. Its span was so broad, and each trace held a sort of reverence to it. It never pushed his sweater up.
• His head was cradled, gentle and soothing. A thumb brushed a chapped lip as trust was gifted to him, even if it was far more conditional than before.
• He had long ago given up on tallying the touches Dream had laid onto his hips, imprinting his possession upon him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. But, it’s the time he takes to take him apart that stays with him: each movement so deliberate and choreographed with murmured word that a single touch took what felt like hours, as though nothing else was left in the world besides time.
• His face was damp with salted tears and exertion, body taut with exhaustion and overwhelm as he writhed against the sheets. Dream knew, because of course he knew, and leant down for all but a moment, soft words on his lips as he spoke sweetly to him, each syllable delicate in its sincerity. Just a little longer, he’d said. You’re so perfect, George, so perfect.
• He realized, on the edge of consciousness, that Dream had put his jumper in the dryer: he can hear it softly knocking around the drum a room and a half away. When did he find the time to do that? He wondered what Dream’s detergent smells like, and wondered if it smells at all like his own.

He wonders if Dream ever has these sorts of recollections, or thinks fondly of him when the world is suspended at these odd hours. But, that’s just an absurd train of thought: George is a damn good hookup that triggered memories of an agonizing past, nothing more. They’re friends in the loosest sense, and friends don’t lie awake while the sky is still black thinking of what it feels like to be touched, to be known. 

The rosy-fingered dawn comes late, as it always does when the winter has them fully in her grip, and its light is cold where it slips in through every tiny crack it ruthlessly seeks out. It’s a gentle moment, just him and Eos at this hour, and he has to fight the idea of intentionally waking Dream to join them. George knows for a fact that he is not a stranger to these early moments of the day, but only from the other direction as a horrendous night owl; he has sworn up and down that he is trying to fix his sleep schedule, but George can tell from a mile away that he never really has. 

While the other human in this flat may still be asleep, the sudden, soft jingle of a distant bell lets George know that its other occupant has been disturbed enough by the light to jump down from whatever perch she chose as her bed last night. It took him a while to figure out that Patches never really sleeps in a consistent place. Cat only ever slept in the second-hand armchair in his bedroom, worn beyond belief but worth every penny, and grew visibly upset if he had the audacity to leave something in it before bedtime. But Patches was itinerant, constantly moving from her cat tree, to the couch, to an armchair, to Dream’s bed, to a small bed next to his nightstand, and god only knows where else. Figuring out where she was in the morning was a bit of a roulette unless she came to you first, and it seems she was intent on finding them this morning.

George doesn’t hear her come in, but he can feel the added weight as Patches hops onto the bed in silence, carefully navigating her way around the tangle of blanketed limbs until she sits right next to George without any fuss, peering down at him with her big, golden eyes. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispers, careful not to wake Dream as he lifts a hand to scratch behind her ears. “Where did you fall asleep last night, hmm?”

She slowly blinks at him, content with the petting and oblivious to his question. 

He switches to softly running his hand down her back, which seems to make her happier. Quiet purrs begin to break up the uninterrupted silence of the room as she finally lies down, pressed against his side and perfectly content. “There you are. You’re so polite, Cat never cuddles with me in the morning.”

The perfect domesticity of it all is nearly lethal, a warm arm draped over his waist and a silken cat tucked against him as the day filters in through the gaps in the blinds. In another world, in another life, this would be everything he could have ever wanted. It’s the sort of thing he dreamed about when he was a kid, still terrified of himself and what he so desperately yearned for. 

Yet, it isn’t. 

That’s what makes it so cruel, he thinks: this is all some sick approximation of happiness. George is hemmed in on all sides, trapped by his circumstances and the appearance of a stability that does not exist: that cannot exist. His only way to stay sane is to keep delaying judgment so that he doesn’t drown in the brutality of it all. Suspension of belief is his only way to happiness, and he has no choice but to cling to it like a man lost at sea. 

It’s so unbearably lonely. George feels more alone now than he ever did when he was in the depths of singlehood, and he’s quite literally in bed with someone else. He wants to regret it, he really does, but it’s hard to do that when he’s become so tethered to this random man from Florida, one of millions, that physical distance makes him feel almost sick. 

His reverie is interrupted by someone absolutely leaning on their horn—a terribly considerate thing to do at seven in the morning on a Sunday—somewhere nearby. Patches bolts, skittering off to some far corner of the room, and Dream makes the typical noise of being shocked awake, confused and half-conscious.

“George?” he calls out, pulling his figure closer in some vague attempt to figure out what’s going on. “Wha’ time is’t?

“Seven-something,” he tenderly supplies, patting his arm in reassurance. “Go back to sleep.”

Dream grumbles and tilts his face further into the pillow in an attempt to block the little light there is. “Why’re you up?” It’s muffled. 

“Don’t know. Something woke me up a while back, and I just couldn’t sleep.”

Always the consummate gentleman, that finally rouses Dream a bit more. “I thought you’d be dead asleep ‘til ten: last night was a lot.”

“I know.”

There are a few awkward moments of shuffling about as the other man renegotiates with his waking body, finally leading him to roll a bit more onto his side so he can get a better look at George with sleep-blurred eyes. “But you need your beauty sleep: gotta keep that face of yours looking like that somehow.”

George finally snorts out a laugh at that and does his best to fight the blush threatening to rise on his cheeks. “That’s not quite how insomnia works, but I’ll make sure and file a complaint about it.”

Dream studies him for a while longer, eyebrows scrunched together as if he is trying to figure out some critical problem: whenever it rears its head in the early morning, his sleep-addled slow processing will never cease to be endearing. “I’m not sleeping if you aren’t. That’s not fair when it’s this early.” He sounds so sincere that it’s almost crushing. 

“Please don’t deprive yourself of sleep just because I’m, like, conscious weirdly early,” he says back, and means it. “Please, go back to sleep, Dream.”

Unfortunately, the man in question seems committed now, eyes slowly getting more alert as the seconds go on and he shakes his head. “Do you want to just stay here? I can go find your phone. Or, I mean, there’s always a shower, or I guess we could just have breakfast or something.”

He does want to shower, truth be told. George knows that he was the one who had dragged Dream back to bed before they cleaned up, so that’s on him, but he also knows he’s far stickier than he likes being. At the same time, he doesn’t know how well he could handle a shower with Dream at this point, even if every ounce of him is screaming to the high heavens how badly he wants it. 

“I…” He briefly trails off before ultimately letting his worst impulses win. “I really want to shower.”

Dream nods in understanding. “I can’t imagine you feel clean right now, so that’s fair.” He moves to let go of him, and George’s body wilts. “Do you want me to join you, or are you happier on your own?”

Don’t be stupid, you know it’s just going to make you feel worse, and you’ll wind up resenting it later, and— “You can come.”

He noticeably perks up at that, and his ridiculous smile lights up his face. “It’s been a while since we’ve showered together.”

“I’m too sore to do anything, so don’t get any ideas,” George snipes back, finally rolling over so he can sit on the edge of the bed. It’s the first time he’s seen himself since last night, and a part of him glows with sweet shame when he sees fingertip-shaped bruises on his thighs from how tightly Dream had held him last night. It happens almost every time they sleep together, but the novelty never seems to fade.

“I know, I know,” Dream reassures as he shuffles around in the background somewhere. “I’ll go and warm up the water. See you in a minute?”

George doesn’t turn to look at him, not sure for a moment if he could handle his lopsided grin, but calls out confirmation over his shoulder, which the other thankfully accepts if the creak of his bathroom door is any indication. The carpet beneath him is a faded flea market relic, colors muted from an unknown number of decades of cold sunlight. Some of the fringe has been eaten away by moths or frayed into oblivion from one too many footsteps, but it’s still somehow charming. It doesn’t match anything else in the room, but George feels like that might just be the point. 

It takes him several long moments of composure before he feels ready to stand up and make his way to the shower he can now hear running in the background, overlaced by a hushed humming, so faint that George nearly misses it. His chest hurts.

He raps the back of his knuckles against the door a few times in warning before stepping into the long, thin tiled strip of a room that he has come to know so well. Dream is hunched over, rummaging through a cabinet for god-knows-what, but immediately turns his attention to George as soon as he sees him, wide grin breaking out easily across his sleepy features. 

“Hey,” Dream’s voice is painfully soft and so full of warm contentment when he says it. “I don’t think I’ve ever showered this early in my life, you know.”

George has to pluck an old, off-hand comment from deep in his memory. “Oh, yeah: you’re a nighttime shower guy, aren’t you?”

“The things I do for you, doll.” He japes as he once again draws himself back up to full height, stretching in that languid way of his. There is just something about the slight curve and gentle strength of him that makes George’s mouth go a little dry. 

Dream doesn’t harp on his silence, which George has all but a split second to be thankful for before he immediately launches into something worse. “You know, you look like a mess this morning.” Dream takes one unhurried stride toward him, eyes wandering far too much to be innocent, and then another until he’s close enough to touch him. “Bruised up all pretty for me.”

George feels like he’s frozen in place, diminutive in Dream’s shadow and wilting from the attention. His heart rate ticks up by more than it should from their proximity: close enough to see the dusting of faint freckles on his shoulders, faded by months of being hidden away from the punishing winter. Dream lays a hand on his own and slightly turns him toward the mirror and he watches in real time as he appears in duplicate, slightly blurred by the soft rolling steam collecting on its glass. But, even with that waterborne haze, it doesn’t take him long to make out the ghost of ravenous teeth and possessive hands. 

Marks positively litter his skin: they begin halfway up his neck, then trace down over crooks of bone and webbed sinew, down the planes of his chest and the hollows of his ribs until they worsen dramatically around his hips. He can practically see Dream’s handprints there, his grip so unrelenting and unmerciful last night that he had surely held him by bone. As if sensing his thoughts, the man responsible traces playfully down his sides until he can line up his hands with the damage they had left once more, softly settling in the slim dip there. It is so breathtakingly gentle this time, yet the strain of possession still lingers heavy. 

“See? Such a mess.”

George has to close his eyes, unable to dwell on the simmering something in Dream’s golden eyes while he hovers behind him, close enough that he can feel the soft heat of his flesh. His presence is so consuming that it’s briefly overwhelming: the faint salt of his sweat, slow breath on the back of his neck, the traces of what they did last night lingering in the air, the reverent hands on his body.  For a moment, he feels like he’s drowning inside of himself, the air so oppressive he might as well be breathing in liquid oxygen. He feels like he’s an object of hunt, and here he is, one foot in the loop of a snare and another— 

Then, Dream slaps his ass and it’s over, just like that. Like it was nothing at all. 

George yelps, swatting away the other man as though he’s a wasp. “What the hell?”

“So serious this morning,” Dream tuts, pulling back and smirking at him, eyes meeting in the mirror. George hates how much he loves it. “Come on, let’s just shower and relax. It’s too early for you to pretend you’re mad at me.”

He scowls, because what else could he possibly do in that moment, and watches Dream pull open the glass door before gesturing for him to go in first. 

“Such a gentleman,” George dryly quips as he pushes past him, choosing to ignore the very obvious eyes raking down his bare body. 

The hot water brings with it an immediate relief that no other feeling can ever begin to compare to, not really. His eyelids snap shut and his shoulders collapse the moment the spray hits him, every ounce of tension left over from their fateful reunion sapping from him in an instant while a shamelessly soft noise leaves his parted lips. “Don’t you say anything,” He preemptively murmurs, not even bothering to open his eyes just yet and face whatever teasing look was splayed across Dream’s features. “Not after last night.”

Dream is good at understanding when he’s trying to needle him and when he means it, some sort of sixth sense ruling their every interaction, so it’s no wonder he remains quiet and allows his acts to speak enough for themselves. He hears the soft click of the shower door hardware as it closes before broad hands are combing through his darkening hair, pushing it back from his forehead to stop thick rivulets of water from running down his face. Permission is not needed here, and the gesture is somehow touching in its bare simplicity. 

It’s then that he finally reopens his eyes, the shower dimmed by Dream’s frame blocking out some of the little light the patchy sconces give off. He’s partly in shadow that way, half his hair stuck down from the bit of the spray he managed to catch, and the rest puffing out in a mess of sex-mussed curls. “You look a little ridiculous, Dream.”

He scowls. “Then move over: let me have some water.” A foot knocks against George’s calf in an attempt to avoid manhandling him. “It’s my shower, you know.”

“And you invited me to use it.”  

Dream looks down at him, one eyebrow quirked up in incredulity. “You are so lucky I like you, George.”

Oh, you haven’t the faintest fucking idea. “Fine, I’ll be nice: you can have some of the water you pay for.”

As he steps forward, Dream takes it as the pyrrhic victory it is and finally moves to switch places with George, the two of them awkwardly negotiating the narrow pass in the middle as shoulders and elbows and knees knock together several times. Muttered sorry ’s and avoidant glances, the steam swirls around their figures, little shockwaves echoing out when cool air falls. 

The moment he’s under the water, Dream stretches up, combing through his hair and putting the entirety of himself shamelessly on display for George to take in. He tries not to leer, he really does, but he doesn’t think there’s a way for this shameless looking to ever not feel filthy. Compared to George’s body, he’s emerged entirely flawless from last night, apart from maybe the slightest scratch from where he’d clung to him and stained his jumper with tears earlier on. No ownership, no comity, no hint of claim: only the few surviving summer freckles and that small collection of scars from a childhood of recklessness. The two of them could not look any more different in this moment, and it’s a contrast that George is entirely and brutally inured to at this point. 

That deep-seated part of him craves the act of watching Dream in this lax moment, laid bare. A perch on that little bench, the one where he had been held and lovingly worn away, is such an oh-so terribly inviting prospect: he could look, and look, and god, he could look . The opportunities for him to do that are few and far between, and he relishes every moment he can get, ravenous in ways that he has yet to fully understand. This whole situation just makes him feel like Tantalus, and he thinks he’ll soon starve. 

Lost to his admirations and an overly petulant heart, he fails to register that Dream is watching him, too: more intently than he expected. “Are you feeling okay today, George?” he asks in a voice that is far warmer than he deserves. “I know there wasn’t…that I didn’t really do much last night, but you just seemed too exhausted, and I just—”

“You’re starting to ramble,” George gently cuts him off, knowing that this sentence will continue to run along unabated unless he steps in before it truly gets going. “Like you said: I was tired. I don’t think I stayed awake for more than a few minutes afterwards.”

It’s hard to take him seriously when he looks a bit like a wet dog, but there’s a funny expression twisting his features just enough for it to be noticeable. “You didn’t answer my question, George.” It isn’t angry or even annoyed, but there is the thinnest ribbon of a lethal current of disappointment underlying it. “Come on, we talked about this.”

Fuck. He feels his stomach drop. “I- I didn’t mean to do it like that.” The deflection is so second nature to him that he thinks it will be difficult to pretend to be open with Dream. “I, um, I think I’m okay?”

“You don’t sound very sure.” The constant sound of the shower and the gurgling of water swirling down the ancient pipes serves as a strange and overly intrusive backing track to this entire ordeal.

George can only sigh, partly out of futility with the question, partly out of frustration with his own inability (or his own obfuscation) to voice even the simplest of concepts without betraying his true emotions. “It was a lot. Not- not in a bad way!” He rushes to get in, but then all thoughts come to a halt again: a constant cycle. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Then take your time,” Dream reassures, voice gentle yet notably reserved. “I already told you that I’m not gonna do this if you won’t talk to me, George. So, just talk to me when you can; I’ll wait. That’s all I’m asking for here.”

He hates that Dream even has to say that, because they both know that should be the bare minimum. George shouldn’t be struggling with this, shouldn’t be agonizing over every word in fear of saying something that reveals his own web of half-truths. He isn’t even sure of what he’s feeling right now, some inexorable mélange of confusion, listlessness, and loneliness that he’s been bathing in for several empty hours now. A few things begin to click. 

It takes him what feels like an unending number of silent minutes to finally come up with something, though, and he thinks it’s mostly true. Mostly. “I think I’m still dropping a little.” His voice is hardly above a whisper; it’s a sheepish confession, and he can’t quite look Dream in the eyes for it.

The quiet stretches out between them, tense and unyielding. George doesn’t know what else to say, but he does know that he wants to shrink inside of himself: collapse until he can hardly tell his own limbs apart. He’s really done it now, hasn’t he? Dream can tell that he isn’t telling him everything and, oh god, he’s going to kick him out, isn’t he? He’s ruined this, it’s all over, it’s not salvageable, even though they tried and—

Dream’s body is warmer than his, the heat of the water still clinging to his shoulders when he wraps his arms around George in an embrace that he doesn’t quite deserve. He freezes for longer than he’d like to admit, mind struggling to wrap itself around the sudden and overwhelming contact. 

“What do you need?”

George wilts. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? You. You: I need you. I need you so desperately that I don’t even really understand it anymore. Why does it feel like this? It’s never felt like this with anyone before, not once, and you’re the one person I’m not allowed to have. “I don’t know.”

This one isn’t a half-truth, unlike what comes out of his mouth half the time. He doesn’t think there’s a solution to what’s troubling him, not really, and all he wants is for this to not suffocate him anymore. 

“That’s okay,” Dream’s words are clearly meant to dulcify the shadow of strange uncertainty in his blood. They’re spoken like he’s comforting a panicked animal. “Is it alright if I just do my best to take care of you?”

With George’s head resting against his throat, he can feel the soft vibrations of his vocal cords as he speaks, stretching and easing as each syllable is formed just for him. They’re both still close enough to the shower spray that he can feel it kicking up against the tiles as it falls and spatters against their calves. “Okay.” 

It’s easier to succumb to this. Maybe there’s a world in which he can live with just taking everything he’s given: seeking pleasure and finding contentment in that alone. He wants to find that world, he really does, but he thinks there might be far, far too much in the way. But he can pretend: he’s good at that. 

Dream carefully guides him, hands gentle in their handling, toward the water and it doesn’t take long for him to be soaked from head to toe again. His muscles are sore; his bruises hurt. 

He honestly isn’t sure how long this entire process takes because it all begins to blur together the moment that Dream’s fingers gently work shampoo through the hair that he desperately needs to trim. There’s that scent of lime again—a constant presence whenever he lays on Dream’s pillowcase or gets close enough to him in the throes of ecstasy—and it’s overcoming like this, carried on wet air. Despite its brightness, it lulls him into a strange, middling state of… something that he can’t quite put words to either. It feels like he’s been enveloped in the remnants of this man he hates and loves and needs and can’t stand all at once: some mocking imitation of it all. Is it relief? Is it apathy? 

George is sure that conditioner comes later, and he’s vaguely aware of the fact a bar of soap is leaving trails of milky foam in its wake all over his body. Dream’s hands are all over him, but it’s the furthest thing from sexual: wholly solace. Dream continues to handle him the kindest way he knows, mellow somethings passing through his lips that do not demand, nor even expect, a response. It is quiet in a way that should be comforting. 

“You still with me, baby?” It’s said as broad hands light upon his waist again and their proximity narrows yet again. He’s so close, yet a yawning chasm stands between them. 

His voice is quiet. “Yeah, ‘m sorry.”

Dream shakes his head. He still looks funny with his curls weighed down, darkened, and smoothed by water; George wonders how odd it would be if he cropped his hair short. “You don’t have to apologize. Either way, it’s been a lot worse before, yeah?”

“That’s true.” George still remembers how sticky the tile walls of the train station felt beneath his clenched fist, the hot salt clinging to his eyelashes, the way he had to claw for every single rattling breath: the bone-deep hum of the metal snakes below underscoring it all. But, that memory is one solely for him.

“Let’s go and dry off.” Dream reaches through the misted air to turn off the water, and George misses its warmth immediately. “How do eggs sound for breakfast?”

He thinks he’ll miss the warmth of this temperamental proximity far more than the water, though. “Eggs sound good.”

---

While that shower had felt half like eternity and half like a single breath, the sun has hardly moved from his spot in the sky. It had flooded Dream’s living room with light as soon as he opened his curtains, the knocking, bare branches of the old oak in front of his building casting wavering bars of shadow that constantly shifted with each persistent gust. It’s not so different from his own mornings, further south and with a lower price tag (and smaller windows).

Patches has fully recovered from her horrifyingly rude ordeal with the car horn earlier and immediately rubbed up against his ankles the moment he walked into the room with her father. George was clad in clothes that she knew did not smell of him. He didn’t even bother questioning it when Dream slipped a sweatshirt over his head that was at least two sizes too big, relishing the faint traces of his cologne that clung to it and the softly-worn fleece inside. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t still be dwelling on it fifteen minutes later, but he’s never exactly known himself for his integrity of character when it comes to Dream. 

Speaking of, the other man is standing in his kitchen, in plain view of George as he swirls freshly-beaten eggs around an old, beaten-up stainless steel pan that has clearly been the primary workhorse of this kitchen for years, now. The sun shining behind him highlights every half-dry flyaway in his damp curls and the collar of his t-shirt has a few small holes worn into it from one too many runs through the wash, but this half-finished version of him is endearing. George can smell toast, and there are two freshly-washed oranges sitting out on the counter for them, nabbed from the bowl where they are piled high in the corner. 

“Are you sure I can’t help?” George calls out, feeling entirely useless and entirely too in his head for his liking. 

The eggs are starting to firm up enough that they can be scrambled now, the blond-rendered-temporarily-brunet reaching for a silicone spatula with one of its corners mysteriously missing. “I’m sure, doll. You just relax over there and look pretty for me.” His self-satisfied smirk is evident enough in his tone that George doesn’t even have to look to find it. 

He rolls his eyes to himself, shifting slightly in his spot at Dream’s diminutive excuse of a dining table. Like this, the sounds of tender domesticity and the howling winter wind in the background, it’s easy for him to rest his chin in his hand and let his eyes slip shut. His collar is a bit damp, and his feet are cold because he swears that Patches nabbed his socks last night, but it’s alright: there is the comforting smell of orange peel, and a flock of starlings chirps and cackles as they sprint down Dream’s street in their strange, shifting whirls. It’s peace, despite it all.

“Do you want cheese?”

George’s eyes crack open to the sight of Dream holding two packages of sliced cheese: muenster and provolone. “Those are sort of odd selections for eggs, Dream, I’m not going to lie to you.”

“I am giving you free breakfast,” he japes back. “How dare you criticize my preexisting cheese selection that I am so graciously offering you. Maybe you just don’t want cheese at all.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that!”

Dream tuts, tossing one of the packages back into his refrigerator with great fanfare and sanctimony. “Too late! Only salt and pepper for you.”

George just scowls. “You are so mean to me some days.”

He can tell there’s a split second, not even a breath, where Dream thinks he’s being serious, and that flash on his face is almost ruinous, but his recovery is quick. “Well, that’s, uh, that’s what you get! Yeah.” An exceedingly awkward moment of quiet. “Seriously though, I don’t have anything else, so it’s that or no cheese: up to you.”

Just keep it moving, forget it happened, forget the look on his face. “Muenster’s fine with me. Provolone is just vile.”

Dream looks downright offended at that, as though he had personally insulted his firstborn child. “I beg your finest pardon? Provolone is delicious; how dare you.”

George shrugs while a sour look he couldn’t hold back if he tried narrows his eyes and scrunches up his mouth. “It just…it tastes bad. How can you like that? It’s like it’s stale, somehow.”

He’s shot a look that reads of sheer and utter despondency, eyes dead and mouth pulled into a sad, bland line. “For my own sanity, and so that I don’t put you out in the cold, I’m going to end this little chat here. Muenster it is for you.”

He can’t help but snort out a laugh and barely roll his eyes. “You wouldn’t throw me out in your own clothes, Dream; we both know that.”

That seems to get to him; George may not be able to see the actual tint of it, but he can see Dream’s cheeks darken slightly from all the way over at the table. “Sh- shut up, George.”

He does this time, satisfied with the other’s novel moment of fluster. It’s rare to get to him, and these unguarded moments are few and far between. 

The clink of ceramic rims bumping against each other, the cheery ding! of Dream’s toaster, and Patches’s unprompted chittering make a little tune when played together in the background, with the underlying sound of the city beginning to properly wake rounding everything out. His mornings are usually ones spent alone, and it’s easy to forget just how different it feels to exist with someone else in the morning, when you’re still in your pajamas and sleep clings to your eyes. Just to hear the rustle of someone else’s clothes, or hear them sigh when they spill something on the counter feels far more precious than George usually gave it credit for. 

That feeling of unbearable loneliness has returned to him, flailing in his chest in horrific juxtaposition to the sweet half-smile on Dream’s lips as he rounds the end of his kitchen countertop and approaches with two plates, piled high with notice.

His meal is gingerly placed down in front of him, rotated just slightly so that the orange segments are in the top right, lined up with his water glass. “Thanks.”

Dream just nods as he sits heavily in the chair opposite his and for a long, devastating moment, he’s sitting here three weeks ago, in a graveyard of forgotten styrofoam, when the overheads seemed to cut through his retinas and half-wilted hyacinths struggled between them as he clung to the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip. He has to shake it from his head, trying to burn this image of Dream, his curls still wet and pushed back by a headband and sleeves worn from where George knows he mindlessly fingers them out of nervous habit, into the back of his eyelids instead. 

“Sure thing, baby.” He shoots him another one of his thousand-watt smiles and tucks into his eggs without preamble. 

George picks up his own cutlery in tandem, pleasantly surprised at just how soft the texture of them is when he scoops up a forkful. Everytime he tried to do this on his own, without fail, they always ended up far too hard and dried out to be all that palatable. “You’re good at this.”

He looks across the table quizzically, a long string of condemnable provolone linking his bite to the plate. “What, scrambling eggs?”

“Yeah.” The toast is slightly too light for his preference, but how could he complain when he never thought he would sit at this table again?

Dream wheezes out a laugh and their legs briefly bump underneath the table as he shifts in his chair. “You Brits are just really bad at cooking, aren’t you? It’s like a national curse or something.”

He wants to disagree with him, he really, truly does, but he’ll never forget the first time he had steak that wasn’t boiled, and promptly agrees to clamp his jaw shut on the topic. “ I’m also just uniquely bad at cooking, Dream. Like, I think this is more of a me problem than anything else.”

“You just don’t want to admit that your whole country, aside from, like, Gordon Ramsay, are just bad at cooking,” He points a fork of orange at him. “You should pay me for cooking lessons.”

“ Pay you? Not a chance in hell.”

He puts his hands up defensively, facing warping in joviality as he dramatically leans back for effect. “Your loss! I’m an excellent cook, I’ll have you know.”

It dawns upon George in this moment that there is a lot that he doesn’t know about Dream. He had no idea he even liked cooking, let alone that he was good at it; every time that he had stayed over, meals either involved takeout or were simple enough that most anyone with brain cells to rub together could manage. God knows what else he didn’t know but, then again, is that information he’s really entitled to? “I didn’t know you were into it.”

The genuine nature of his tone seems to catch Dream off guard, whose eyebrows knit together slightly as he examines his conversational partner. “Oh, yeah. I guess I’ve never really had a reason to mention it, huh?”

Aside from the small chipping sounds of metal on porcelain, the quiet stretches between them for an awkward amount of time. George has no clue how to really respond to that beyond a random noise from his built-in catalog of noncommittal affirmation. He can hear the bell on Patches’s collar jingle somewhere in the background as she finds some new perch, but she’s their only interruption for far longer than felt comfortable.

Finally, Dream draws in a breath, preparing to launch into something. “Okay, a proposition for you: you ask me a question about myself, I answer, and then I get to ask you something about yourself.”

Despite his best efforts, he cannot help but snort out a frankly hideous laugh. “What is this, a speed-dating icebreaker?”

“ Listen ,” He frowns as he crunches down on his toast. “I can tell you want to ask me shit, because you’re just about as obvious as the day is long, but I know you well enough that I know you also won’t just come out and ask it. So I’m, like, trying to give you permission without it feeling like you’re interrogating me.”

He can’t help that he’s still giggling a bit at the awkward formality of it all, but it does at least make some sort of sense when he puts it like that. “O-okay,” He has to interrupt his sentences to breathe in as his laughing abates. “Let me think for a minute, I guess.”

George contemplates for a while, delicately turning an orange segment on the verge of being more pith than flesh with the tines of his fork. He should ask him something basic, like maybe what he was like in high school, or if he’s ever traveled abroad, but he’s about to do something monumentally stupid, and his impulse control is being pinned down by painful curiosity. “Okay, I’ve got something: when was your first kiss?”

The man across the table from him tilts his head up to meet the question, eyebrows lifting slightly in honest surprise, but he takes it in easy stride. “Interesting start, I’ll give you that. So, do you want me to tell you about the actual first one or the first one that mattered?”

He’s slightly confused by the distinction. “What does it matter? A kiss is a kiss, isn’t it?”

Dream laughs softly, lips curling into a gentle slope that emphasize the way his cheeks gather—just ever so slightly—into dimples at their corners. “Are you kidding? Me touching a part of my face to someone else’s doesn’t automatically mean something. Or are you telling me that the very first time you ever kissed someone, it, like, turned your world on its axis? Because I absolutely refuse to believe that ninety-eight percent of the time.”

He cycles back through his own thoughts: a faceless drunken haze of a party during year ten, some pretty girl seizing the back of his head by his own short-cropped hair and tugging until she was licking into his mouth. All that George could taste had been the cheap domestic beer someone’s older brother had bought: not exactly life-altering.

“I’m taking your silence and the sour look on your face as confirmation that it, in fact, did not do much for your life.”

“Fine, then,” George relents. “Tell me the difference in yours if you want to prove your point.”

Dream’s smile grows to something between mischievous and downright dopey. How he still manages to look handsome despite it is something beyond George entirely. “Well,” he begins, tone honest despite his face. “I was a kid when the first one happened. I don’t know if you guys have those obnoxious branded vacation resorts back in your corner of the world, but we were at one of those on a family vacation. I couldn’t’ve been older than, like… late elementary school? Early middle school if I’m pushing it. My parents were off lounging around somewhere, and my siblings and I were just sort of fucking around in the pool. I, of course, thinking that I was getting too old and cool to hang out with my younger siblings, sulked off to this hot tub sort of tucked in the corner against the resort’s main building.”

“This sounds like every single American movie ever made.” George chides, quirking up an eyebrow in amusement as he returns to his toast. 

“I know, I know,” he concedes. “It’s so goddamn cliché. But, anyway, I met this girl who was there by herself, too. We struck up a conversation and an impromptu game of truth-or-dare. She dared me to kiss her, so I did. I can’t imagine why she wanted that. I was just starting to get gangly at that age and I had the most fucked-up proportions. But, I never saw her again, and that was it.”

George can’t help it when he giggles to himself, bathing in the silliness of the entire situation. “That’s not, like, a proper kiss, though. You were just a kid: those don’t count.”

“So you admit that there is a difference?” The vindication is clear in his voice, smug light in his golden eyes. 

He playfully scoffs, lightly kicking Dream’s shin beneath his table. “I said that stuff when you’re that young doesn’t mean anything. You’re telling me that, among all the people you’ve probably kissed since you turned, like, sixteen, one of them meant something more than the one that came chronologically first?”

“Yes.” He responds, simple and unadorned: only affirmation and nothing else. He is sincere. 

“Then tell me about it. Prove me wrong.”

Dream wags his finger at him— wags his fucking finger—and proudly pronounces: “Nope! I get to ask a question first. You promised we’d go back-and-forth.”

“Oh, come on: that does not count as a second question.”

“It absolutely does. You asked me when my first kiss was, and I told you; now you want to know when my first proper kiss was, and that’s totally different.”

George narrows his eyes at him, lips pursed in annoyance. “You are such a bullshitter, but fine: ask away.”

He is honestly shocked by just how quickly Dream shoots back a question, fully anticipating that he would make a show of thinking about it. “Which birthday was your favorite and why?”

He blinks a few times. “What the hell, why did you have that so immediately ready to go?” When he receives only an expectant stare from across the table, he moves on. “Do you mean, like, what number I liked turning the most, or which party I liked the most?”

“Up to you.” Dream pops another piece of orange in his mouth, a drop of errant juice dripping down his chin before he swipes at it with his sleeve. “Whatever you want.”

George does genuinely have to think back to consider his answer. He loved turning eighteen, of course: the pulsing multicolor strobes of a club and the horrid taste of an incoming hangover on his tongue while he sang too loudly with his friends from school. He remembers seven being particularly fun, although the details are a little harder to recall: he thinks he had a weird obsession with trains for a few of his younger years, and seems to recall a boxcar-shaped cake. 

“Okay, this is probably a kind of weird answer,” he begins, looking up and off to the side as he tries to cross-check his own details before sharing them. “But my twenty-third birthday: the last one I had back home.”

Dream is paying him his full attention, even abandoning his oranges and remaining toast as he begins to talk. 

“It was unexpectedly nice, looking back, which is kind of weird because I didn’t have any sort of party, or really do anything all that typical for a birthday. Like, I genuinely don’t even think I got any sort of proper cake, and the gifts were small.”

“Hard sell for a ‘best birthday’ so far, George.”

He simply stares at him, expression flat. “Do you want my answer or not?”

“Fine, fine.” 

He shakes his head in resignation. “As I was saying, it wasn’t some huge blow-out party or anything. My birthday’s in the winter.” He catches a strange moment of…something in Dream’s face, then. Recognition, acknowledgement maybe? But, he’s at least told him when his birthday is before, right? He had to. “But we actually wound up going to this one place up in the Lake District that we usually went to on summer holiday. The weather was pretty miserable—it was freezing, and it’s rainy that time of year up there—but my parents and my sisters and I stayed at this little cottage tucked back in the next valley. 

“When the rain did let up, we would go out and just sort of hike the ridges, even though it was so goddamn windy that it would bite into your cheeks, sort of like it is here.” He pauses, recalling the brutal sting of it, and how much he’d complained while they were there. “But, I don’t know. I just have this really distinct memory of sitting on some outcropping of rock, looking down at the water way below us, and it’s like I could sort of feel things in my life changing, you know?”

“Maybe your frontal lobe was just developing,” Dream jokes, but it’s not taunting or mean-spirited or anything. It’s sincere. “I think I get what sort of feeling you’re describing.”

He nods, unexpectedly pensive all of a sudden. “I mean, I knew I was about to move all the way over here, across the ocean, and I didn’t know anybody on the other end beyond the hiring manager I’d been in contact with. So, it was this sort of weird mix of dread and excitement, but sitting there with my sister, just watching the lake from so high up made it all sort of fade away for a little while, wind and cold be damned.”

George can still recall the way the fowl sent ripples out into the water, or how the cotoneaster bushes, dripping in clusters of berries, heaved and swayed in the wind. “So, I guess that’s, like, my existential crisis birthday. But it was still really nice, if that makes sense.”

The smile he’s met with is kinder than he had been expecting. Dream’s gaze is soft. ”Yeah, I get it.”

He can’t help but let the corners of his mouth pull up just slightly in response, eyes sheepishly avoiding his. It’s a hushed moment that he struggles to not assign significance to. “So, um…your first kiss, right?”

“First kiss that mattered ,” Dream corrects, immediately picking up his playful, ridiculous mood from earlier without skipping a beat. “Can’t even remember the questions you ask me, Georgie. Tsk, tsk. ”

He rolls his eyes, aiming to softly kick at him underneath the table but only managing to catch the fabric of his sweatpants instead. “Oh, just get on with giving up your secrets.”

Dream responds first by successfully tapping George’s shin with his socked foot instead as if to prove his superior aim, smirking all the while. Thankfully, he doesn’t harp on it, trying to keep things lighter, and launches into it. “It was my second week of college,” he begins, immediately lost in fond recollection. “There was this guy I met during one of those dumb orientation activity nights at a museum they’d booked out for the night. He had the most gorgeous dark, really curly hair and the lightest gray eyes I’ve ever seen, and it was like I was immediately captivated, or something. Movie-type cliché and stuff, you know? We talked all night, and I asked him out on an absolute whim at the end of it; like, I barely even thought about what I was saying before the words were leaving my mouth.”

“Was this the first time you’d seen an attractive guy or something?” It’s a little funny, the youthful naïvité of it all. He isn’t one to really talk, though; he was no better in university.

A hint of blush hits his cheeks. “Well, no , I have eyes. I don’t know, I wasn’t out to my parents yet, so I’d never gotten to date a guy.” George feels the slightest bit bad now. His tone is achingly embarrassed: sincere. “And it was also probably just the general novelty of really being away from home for the first time. I admit that I was a little head-over-heels faster than I probably should’ve been. Anyway, he said yes and we got coffee that Saturday.

“I still remember all the little rings he was wearing, and what our orders were—he got a London fog, and I got a ristretto. It was so goddamn loud in there, because it was only coffee shop on campus that got non-student traffic, so we had to sit really close together at this tiny table jammed into the back corner to even sort of hear each other: like, pressed together knee-to-thigh, I could see the darker flecks in his eyes kind of close. There’s no way he didn’t notice how red my cheeks were, but he never said a word about it, thank god.

“We ended up talking until close, and we had to get ushered out with the last few stragglers by employees. Neither of us really wanted it to end, though, so we thought we would just wander around the little bookshop attached to it for another hour or two.”

“It’s so weird imagining you like this.” George interrupts briefly, the aching tenderness in Dream’s voice striking at someplace inside of him.

He cocks his head to his right. “Like what?”

He wobbles just slightly, feet sinking into shaky ground. “I don’t know…vulnerable, I guess? We’ve kept romance about as far away from this thing we have going on between us as possible, so I guess it’s odd hearing about your head-over-heels romantic exploits, you know?”

“Oh,” Dream looks away, contemplating for a little longer than he would have anticipated. “Y-yeah, that makes sense.”

When he doesn’t start back in, George prompts him. “So, the bookstore, right?”

That seems to jolt him out of whatever thoughts have stymied him, and he perks back up. “Yeah, uh, the bookstore.” It’s endearing the way that George swears he can sometimes see Dream reorder his thoughts right in front of him. “I was way too broke to be buying thirty-dollar paperbacks, but it was always quiet in there when the sun started to go down, so it was a nice place to just have some space to ourselves. The whole place was an absolute maze of oak bookshelves, way taller than I was, and it was my first exposure to, like, a proper independent bookstore. I still loved going there until the day that I graduated, but I was so, like, enraptured with this guy that I don’t think I absorbed a single summary or title I read that night. 

“He was really into poetry, so I remember him eventually taking my hand after we’d poked around for a while, which just about killed me, and he led me back toward the poetry section so he could show me some of his favorite writers. I couldn’t tell you their names now if I tried, but the poetry section was more of a poetry nook , U-shaped and a little closed off from the rest of the stacks around it.” He can practically feel Dream’s heartbeat ticking up just the slightest bit at the recollection, the story clearly building toward its original point. “And we sat on the concrete floor for what must’ve easily been forty-five minutes, just him reading poetry to me in this really soft, hushed voice while I flipped the pages for him. The bookshelves were so uncomfortable to lean against, but I don’t think I could’ve cared less at that point.

“He was the one who initiated it. I think I was way too nervous to do anything, but it just sort of happened out of nowhere. I was looking over at him, and he just tilted his head up and…kissed me, just like that. It’s so embarrassing thinking back, but I was a little too caught off guard to even react or kiss back, really, so there was this awkward three-second span of time where I just sort of sat there like a dead fish until he pulled away.”

“That’s a bit mortifying.” George jokes, but it’s charming. Sweet. 

Dream sputters. “Shut up. I was freshly eighteen, okay, cut me some slack. I did kiss him back, okay? Like, right after. He was wearing cherry chapstick, I think, which I usually found gross whenever I made out with girls at some high school party but, just…everything was different. I don’t really know how else to explain it, but it made all of that feel stupid and irrelevant. Like none of that had counted, and it’d just been a shitty practice run or something.”

“Not at all like the girl in the resort, then?”

“Not even close.”

There’s still a soft smile clinging to Dream’s lips now that he’s finished recounting the story, and it’s easy to see that he can still feel all of it, even years later; some gray-eyed boy had carved himself into the inside of Dream’s skull for years and left a permanent memory of a single moment, suspended in saccharine time, that he would cherish likely until the day he died. George doesn’t think he’s ever done that for someone. He doesn’t know if he’s the sort of person able to even come close. For anyone.

“My turn to ask, then: what was your first kiss that mattered?”

It makes him wilt, mind stalling as he combs through his sparse dating history. He’d enjoyed himself in university, but nothing all that serious. He just hadn’t the time: at least, that had always been his excuse. But, then he’d graduated and got sucked into his job, which he loved, and romance just seemed like too great a burden to shoulder. Too much effort and too little time, right? He knew now—somewhere inside, he always had—that had just been an excuse to avoid the crushing vulnerability of dating, but denial was a lot easier when he was in the throes of it. 

His words are hushed when he finally speaks. There is a shame, there. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”

Dream doesn’t quite know how to respond at first, avoiding his gaze as he processes. He can guess his thought patterns, likely oscillating between curiosity and pity and indifference in a steady wave. That’s the natural feeling toward that, isn’t it? What a shame you haven’t gotten to experience how wonderful love is. Whatever. He’s fine this way; everyone always tells him he’ll find his person someday. 

“Oh.” 

There are more questions after this, favorite foods and childhood pets and worst books they’ve ever read, but that one word lingers in the back of his mind for each one of them, suspended in formaldehyde for cruel preservation. Sympathy. Reassurance. Pity . 

Dream washes the dishes, and he dries them. Patches insists on playing with the strip of plastic Dream had torn off of the provolone package, and he has to chase her around the flat before he manages to wrangle it from her sharp little teeth. George finally finds his own socks, balled up just out of sight underneath the couch. Silences stretch a little less comfortably, and it’s becoming clear that he needs to go home for his own sake; it’s getting a little harder to pretend with Dream the longer the morning mundanities go on. 

“Any plans for the rest of the day?” George asks him as he watches Dream water the few houseplants he’s barely managing to keep alive.

He finishes up with his pothos, which he clearly tends to the most dearly, its leaves managing to stay entirely green and not curling upon themselves in deficiency. “Hmm…I have to go to the grocery store at some point, and should probably do a bit of work, but not much else. I left today mostly open on purpose. You?”

As he processes each of Dream’s words, he visualizes his bare refrigerator back home and comes to a realization, dramatically hanging his head in his hands. “Fuck, I need to do my shopping too. I keep forgetting to go. I have nothing but rice and beans at home.”

“Oh, I can take you, if you want.” The offer is immediate, without even a second thought. “I have a car, anyway, so it’s a lot easier for me to tote around groceries: save you from hauling bags through the snow.”

George has to blink a few times. “I live, like, seven miles away from you, Dream. That’s way too far out of your way to justify it.”

Watering can in hand and curls almost dried, fully puffing out behind the little strip of metal keeping them at bay, he looks a bit ridiculous. “I’m happy to take you, George. Helping you isn’t ‘going out of my way,’ it’s just something I want to do.”

They can both hear the wind outside, howling its way in from the east with a persistence that never ceases to astonish him. There’s snow slated for later, and the shops are a mile away from his flat. “If you’re offering, I guess I’d be stupid to turn you down.”

---

They didn’t use them last time Dream drove him because the cold wasn’t quite so bitter, but he learned this morning that his car has heated seats, which is just about the most wonderful thing he’s ever experienced. But, there is no hand in his this time and, while he’s still tired, he can tell he’s not at risk of dozing off again, which is honestly for the best. Waking up only to be left on his own doorstep a moment later hurt more than he cared to admit. 

Dream graciously offers to drive to the store closest to him, doing more than meeting him halfway. When met with protestations about how this wasn’t quite fair to him, Dream resolutely shut them down, proclaiming that his one and only condition for taking him to get groceries was that they had to go to George’s store. Well, that and George would have to buy him a box of pastries from the bakery section for his troubles. The man positively refused to budge, and that’s how they wound up in the familiar parking lot in front of a familiar box store on his end of town.

It’s always painfully busy on the weekends, two entire neighborhoods-worth of people jostling for essentials when they have a break from work. There is a baby crying somewhere in the background, and a man arguing on his phone nearby, and the strange noise of a cart wheel rattling without touching the ground, like the rapid-fire click of an aperture. It’s overstimulating on the best of days, and the fact he’s exhausted and mentally drained after not only last night, but the emotional fatigue of this morning’s tumult, makes it a little more grating to be here than he would have preferred. 

But, at least he isn’t shopping alone. It’s always nice getting to banter with someone about which varieties of apple are best, or criticize what sandwich bread they like, but he also has the benefit of serving as the most devastating yet grounding person in George’s life at the moment. Having him here is still some sort of nauseating comfort, despite it all. He is reassuring in his familiarity, if nothing else. 

Their cart is half-full at this point, and they’re both having trouble keeping their own items fully separate. “I still need to grab frozen peas. Do you need anything down there?”

Dream contemplates, not even bothering to pull out his phone to search for a list. “I don’t think so but, if I’m being honest, I always find random shit to buy in the frozen aisle, so I’ll probably still grab something on the way. Where is it?”

“Go right out of this aisle and it’ll be, like, three more aisles down, I think.” He’s not unsure in the slightest—he’s had this store mapped out to a tee in his head since a month after he moved here—but that feels awkward to just admit for some indiscernible reason. 

Their cart has a sticky wheel, because of course it does, but Dream continues to force it along while humming along to some amorphous tune playing through the overhead speakers. It sounds like too many other things for him to be able to pick it out like this. They pass an aisle dedicated entirely to cans of various types, then another with every manner of oils and salad dressings, then one more with paper products before they finally feel the temperature drop indicative of the frozen aisles. 

Everything here glows with a uniquely harsh color, almost as luminescent as the ice on the lake is when the morning sun hits it just right in the dregs of January. Shelves are piled high with bags emblazoned with pictures of shelled edamame or pineapple or smiley-face-shaped-potatoes in a show of excess that he’s come to love over the years. Large yellow tags proclaiming half-off sales pop up from time to time, neatly affixed to the glass. Their coats are both vented open, but George still finds himself slightly flushed with down-feather heat, and the cooler air here feels like heaven for once on his cheeks. 

“You can go on ahead, if you want: I usually have to dig for them a bit. They’re always out of stock here.” 

Dream nods and gives some sort of noise of affirmation, before absentmindedly strolling down the aisle, examining each item and carefully evaluating if it’s worthy enough for an impulse purchase. It’s embarrassingly dear to him, the faux-lined hood of Dream’s coat hiding much of his hair from George’s view as he gets further away. 

True to his suspicions, it takes him a while to find the exact vegetable he’s looking for, the little stock left at this point in the week inevitably getting shuffled around and mixed in with the other nearly-identical items as uncountable shoppers do the same. He eventually stumbles across a lone bag of peas among the green beans, and emerges triumphantly to no one at all, Dream and their cart entirely gone from view.

Slightly deflated, even though he really shouldn’t be, he peers around the island of Oreos randomly placed in the middle of the aisle, as though that would really do much to obscure an over-six-foot-tall man from view. Shockingly, George doesn’t find him there, and makes an awkward beeline for the end of the aisle, his left hand rapidly growing cold and causing condensation to collect on the outside of the bag. 

Loudly looking for someone named Dream in a public space would probably come across as weird, so as he rounds the endcap of discount Kleenex to look down the next aisle, he calls out a mid-volume “Clay?” Unfortunately, no luck here, either, with only a mother and two young girls with identically white-blonde pigtails meet him here, fighting over which popsicles they wanted to get. One wants strawberry, the other grape, and their mother is very clearly trying to (unsuccessfully) moderate as the one in favor of grape stomps her glitter-clad foot on the floor. 

Hastily withdrawing, he only has one more frozen aisle left, and hopes to find his lost companion—alongside his currently-lost groceries—there. “Clay?” He tries again, and it hits its mark when Dream visibly jumps, head whipping around to look in his direction. “There you are.”

Dream awkwardly fiddles with the buttons on his coat, shifting in place a bit as he approaches. “I, uh, was really not expecting to hear that from you.” He looks startled, and slightly discomfited. 

Now it’s his turn to feel strange. “O-oh. I’m sorry. It just felt weird to yell out your nickname. I won’t do it again.” Why is there some sort of clawing ache in him now? 

“No!” Dream rushes to say. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, well, it’s weird hearing it from you.” What is left implied: it’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say my name. 

The air crackles a little, stretched and twisted into itself as they both resolutely refuse to look at each other for a time, George’s gaze on his shoes and Dream’s absentmindedly unfocused on the contents of the case in front of him. He feels like he’s in middle school again and he’s desperate to make that stop. “What were you, um…what were you thinking about getting?”

Dream flinches at the resumption of conversation, but relaxes momentarily afterward, clearly happy to push through and move on from that incredibly bizarre feeling, whatever the hell it was. “Those shitty pre-made breakfast sandwiches. I know they’re not all that good, but I always forget to eat in the morning if I have to actually prepare anything.”

“Can’t judge you there. Any idea of what you want?”

Dream hums out an absolutely not in sliding tones, shifting his weight in George’s periphery as he slightly tilts his head in contemplation, studying the boxes in front of him like his life just about depends on it. They stand, side by side, for a short while. A cashier makes a request for a manager over the loudspeaker, and someone walks by with their headphones set loud enough for George to hear the tinny blast of his music. 

Too bored with looking at illustrations of English muffins and bacon with perfectly-curled edges, he decides to be brave again, just for a moment, and tosses his line of sight fully over to Dream, and everything building up over the last twenty-four hours suddenly comes crashing into him with all the violence of a plane disintegrating ten-thousand feet in the sky.

He’s never met someone who looks good under the glare of fluorescence: it washes you out, it strips your skin to chalk, it removes every ounce of depth you have. That being said, looking up at Dream while he’s seriously debating the worth of different brands of frozen breakfast sandwich makes him reconsider for just a moment. 

Despite the jagged shadows cast by his curls and the sickly glow of the freezer case, he somehow looks beautiful. Not in the way that would make a passerby swoon, or propel him to the cover of a magazine, but in the way that the curve of his cheek and the little scar above his eyebrow and the freckles across his nose bring him an ineffable sense of comfort. There is a steady, careful kindness in the way that George sees him: there is a relief and a solace about him, from the most glorious moment to this, the most mundane. That treacherous part of him craves seeing Dream in all of these prosaic moments, devoid of all natural beauty, yet containing more of it than he could ever really comprehend.

He looks beautiful, even now: even here. What are the odds of that?

Although, that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s a crushing weight to that realization, that it isn’t Dream, not really. It’s George, and it’s been George since that frigid night what feels like so long ago: with lime and fig clinging to his exhausted body, cooling steam obscuring the light of reality for all but a single moment in time as he floundered in delusion and realizations tore him apart. It isn’t that Dream is some ethereal being so stunning that he can’t help but look like he was borne from the intangibly divine despite squinting at nutrition labels in the frozen section; rather, George sees him in shades of rosewood and peach and powder-pink anemone. Of course he finds him beautiful, even now: even here. There are no strange odds or enigmatic calculus to this. George knows: some part of him does, at least.

It still hurts. And with every single moment that passes, it hurts more. 

So, for now, he’ll chime in and pretend that they’re just friends going shopping. Dream has a car, and isn’t it so kind of him to ferry his friend’s groceries all the way home, to his shitty walk-up beyond the desirable real estate of downtown? A gentleman, truly. He’ll pretend to care about protein count and what kind of cheese reheats the best. It’s the least George owes him for being so generous. He’ll laugh at his ridiculous jokes, even when they aren’t funny. He’ll let Dream take his bags for him because he will insist, just like he always does. He’ll play his part, and everything will go just fine. 

“You like Swiss, right?” 

Dream makes a noise of acknowledgement, lips scrunching up in contemplation as his eyes shift to the one box clearly being referred to. “Yeah, I do.” Oblivious to the turmoil careening through the head of the man standing six inches to his left. “Maybe I’ll just do that one.”

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. “I think you’re risking overthinking things at this point, Dream.”

“Fair point.” He finally reaches into the case, frozen air pouring out and swirling around their feet in a thin cloud as he grabs for some box whose branding George couldn’t give a shit about. “You know I’m prone to that.”

George thinks they’re both prone to that sin, truth be told. “Do you have everything on your list?”

The other fumbles for his phone, patting various pockets in his jeans and his coat before finally fishing its cracked surface out from the depths of god-knows-where. The light of its screen doesn’t even make a dent in illuminating him. “Yeah, that should be it for me. Are you good?”

He nods, his will to summon much more beyond that fading with each passing moment. 

He thinks of how pomegranates burst open upon on their trees, blood and crimson offal bared for the world to see and tear apart, juice staining skin of the greedy as they feast on every last seed. He thinks of those pine cones out West that only crack when blazing infernos melt the resin that keeps them held together. He thinks of broken sternums and flared ribs and how scapulas look like severed wings and how he’s so terribly, horribly mortal under just the slightest bit of pressure. He feels like if he breathes wrong, he will come apart at the seams. 

He’s never been allowed to know what it feels like to be so loved that it's overwhelming, never had a memory so precious that he can still taste their chapstick and remember the shapes of each one of their rings, never been able to unconditionally give himself to someone who wants him in return, and every attempt he has ever made has always yielded only this: some unholy devastation of never being enough. 

It’s all so close, like this: the hollow imitation of domesticity has enrobed him in its entirety, and this morning would be more than enough for anyone else. Why isn’t it enough? Why isn’t it ever fucking enough? Why can’t he be satisfied with what he gets anymore? He wants to be—god, does he want to be—but he isn’t sure just how many more times he can drag his broken body over the embers without crying out. 

All he wants is to feel wanted, but he seems to have this godawful knack for putting himself in the exact places where it’s always just out of reach.

Notes:

this was downright terrifying to write! I’m admittedly a bit out of practice, and quite nervous about handling this correctly after so long. all that I can hope is that those of you who are still here reading this (or anyone new!) found it to be a worthy continuation of where I left off two years ago.

thank you for your never-ending patience, and thank you for reading <3

 

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Asterids