Work Text:
George is bored. He’s bored and he knows Dream and Sapnap are recording a video right this very minute, one that Dream will be too busy editing over the next couple of days and won’t even have much time to talk to George. Even if he stays on a call with George, George will have to listen to the sound of Dream and Sapnap over and over and over again for hours, and he’s already grumpy about it.
So grumpy that he misses it when Trent calls his name. He doesn’t notice until Henry punches his shoulder. “Oi, mate,” Henry says, accent coming out thick after four beers.
“What?” George asks, picking up his own drink. It doesn’t even taste good. He doesn’t understand why anyone likes beer.
“We’re moving on,” Trent announces.
Another pub. Yipee. George leaves his beer still mostly full and shrugs his jacket on. At least he’ll get some fresh air for a few minutes, even if he’s annoyed at how much walking they’re making him do tonight.
“Which pub is next?” George asks. “Not the one around the corner. That’s one an L.”
It’s not like he doesn’t want to see his uni friends at all. He just remembers hanging out with them being a little more fun. They’re drunk and complaining about their jobs and their girlfriends and George, having neither a girlfriend nor a job he wants to complain about, just doesn’t have anything to add to the conversation.
And when they do pull him in, it feels like they’re just treating him like a novelty. They know about Minecraft and the DSMP, but it doesn’t always sound like a compliment when they talk about it. They’re jealous of the money but dismissive of the work he and Dream and Sapnap have all put into it.
“George, my man,” Trent says, slinging an arm around George’s shoulder. The force with which he does it makes them both sway. “We’re not going to a pub next. No, sir, we are not. We need to sample some finer wares of the city.”
“Um,” George says. He’s not sure he likes the sound of that.
“Platinum Lace,” Chris crows, holding up his phone with the GPS already programmed to lead them there. “Tits and arse, my friend. Tits and arse.”
George’s stomach drops. His night just got a lot longer, and a lot less fun.
-
The place looks like a strip club. The lighting is dim and tinted red. George wonders what it is about these places and the color red. It's never green, is it? It's never a delightful blue. And this place doubles down on the red, incorporating burgundy upholstered chairs and red-lined booths into the decor as well. George double checks the chair before he sits down, cringing at a small stain that he's going to assume is some kind of food.
There's a girl on the stage already, pacing around in a bra and a tiny skirt, with fishnets covering her legs. She’s pretty. Maybe not model pretty, but still. Pretty.
“Oh, fuck, look at her,” Chris says, rubbing his hands together like he’s looking at a decadent meal that he’s about to tuck into. “She’s hot.”
George tilts his head, looking closer. At this very moment, she unclasps her bra and lets it fall to the floor. George stares in shock, forcing himself not to cover his eyes, both for her sake and for the sake of keeping up appearances with his old mates.
He never came out to them, after all. He met Trent in his first year and then met the other two through him. They ended up sharing a house together in George’s final year, but George never felt the need to tell them he’s gay. It’s not shame or fear–it’s just always so serious when you tell someone you’re gay. It makes George feel itchy.
Other things that make George feel itchy: watching a mostly naked woman dance on a stage, her boobs jiggling and swaying with each movement.
Trent steps up to the stage first, tucking a bill into her skirt. Then Chris. Then Henry.
“George, go tip the woman!” Trent yells over the music. “She’s working her ass off up there.”
“Seems like her ass is very much still intact,” Henry points out with a dirty smirk.
“I don’t have any cash,” George tells them, which is true, but is also an excuse.
“Bro, here,” Trent says, handing him a fiver.
George steps his way up to the bit of the stage where she’s at. She licks her lips at him and squats down, legs spread wide. The little pair of pants she’s wearing hides absolutely nothing, and frankly George never wanted or needed to see the obvious outline of a vulva this close up. He slides the fiver into a bit of material safely at her hip and then steps back.
She laughs. “Shy one, aren’t you?”
Shy isn’t really the word for it. But he shrugs a bit anyway, then turns around and goes back to his seat.
-
He really thinks that’s the worst the night can get.
What he doesn’t count on is Trent getting absolutely wasted off of his ass and deciding to throw a ridiculous amount of money at one specific dancer that he’s apparently decided is his soulmate for the next six hours.
George is not drunk enough for it. He’s tired and he wants to be home. Dream has already sent him half a dozen messages. George knows that they’re finished with the video, and that Dream is already editing it. Jealousy settles uneasily in George’s gut when Dream keeps telling him about funny things that happened during it. It makes him bitter and that makes him wish he were more drunk, so he forces his friends to buy him cocktails instead of the gross beer.
“Alright,” Trent says. “Alright. But you’re doing a lap dance as well.”
“No,” George says, scoffing. “I’m not wasting money on that.”
“My treat,” Trent says. He’s so drunk he can barely stand up. The collar of the shirt he’s wearing is all skewed, and there’s a smear of red lipstick on his jaw.
“Got a girlfriend?” Henry asks, elbowing him. “Don’t worry about it if you do. No one’s posting this on fucking Facebook. I’m proposing to my girl on her birthday next month, already got the ring and everything. This is just a bit of fun.”
“Who even uses Facebook?” George asks, dodging the question in hopes that they’ll forget.
Unfortunately, they don’t. Chris is already calling a woman over, the same one as earlier, that called George shy. George watches it happen in slow motion, like he's stuck in molasses and can't move. By the time he's being sat down and this woman is approaching him, he knows that it's easiest to just get on with it. He doesn't want to risk hurting her feelings or having to have the conversation with his mates, so he takes a deep breath and accepts his fate.
Her bra is on again, and George wonders if she puts it on before each dance just to take it off again. It sounds exhausting. He remembers his brief foray into dating women and the one and only time he was faced with the challenge of removing a bra, all he could think about was how hard they make it. Surely there's an easier way.
"Hi, shy boy," she says, bending over so all he can see is her cleavage. "See anything you like?"
Oh, god, he thinks, trying not to cringe. Do they really have to talk?
He nods, hoping it's enough. It seems to be, because she grins and turns around, giving him a full view of her ass, not even a little bit concealed by her skirt. She's probably not used to men coming in and buying lapdances, only to be entirely uninterested. Why would they? Only an idiot would do such a thing.
An idiot with even more idiotic friends.
When she's done wagging her ass around, she stands and does some hip swaying. It's not quite a dance, but it's good enough for the circumstances. Probably no one is judging her dance skills.
She comes closer, writhing and running her hands over her body, and when she's basically in George's lap, she reaches back and snaps off her bra in a flash. It must be a quick release or something, because no one could ever undo a bra clasp that fast if it was the kind George experienced. Only a magician could do such a–
Oh. Boobs. There are boobs in his face.
He tries to hide his panic, gripping the chair to keep himself from running away.
"No touching," she reminds him with a coy smile and then she starts moving again, straddling George's lap and rolling her hips.
He wonders what part of him looks like he's dying to touch her, but decides it must just be a habit to remind customers. It makes him a little sad, honestly, wondering what people have tried. And then he wonders if being sad for her is somehow taking her power away from her.
He's glad she's making money off of his idiot mates. She deserves every penny.
"Hey, Trent," George calls over his shoulder. "You have any more cash?"
Trent groans but steps forward to give him a couple more notes, a five and a ten, and then disappears from George's view. He assumes they're all watching from behind him, but he really doesn't know.
"A tip," he explains, holding the money out. "For a job well done."
"Aren't you sweet," she says, tucking her lip between her teeth. She lifts the tiny skirt, showing off her barely-there pants. "Put them in here for me?"
George's stomach drops. "Oh, that's okay. You said no touching."
"I'll make an exception." She says it like she's doing him a favor.
He hears Trent wolf whistling. “Georgie-boy, I think she likes you.”
George has to work not to roll his eyes as he pushes the notes into the thin string of her bottoms. She rolls her torso forward sinuously and her breasts squash against his chest. The heat of her feels overwhelming and she smells heavily of perfume. He stares at a spot on her shoulder and wonders if it’s a scar or a birthmark.
Her hand slides into his hair. He wants to ask about no touching again, but apparently that’s only a one way rule. “You’re such a polite little cutie,” she says, dipping low. Her lips brush his ear. “Your friend is right. I do like you.”
“Oh, thanks,” he says.
She laughs at that, and grabs his hand. “Maybe you can touch… just a little.” Then she puts it on her side and drags it upward until his fingertips are brushing the side of her breast.
She lets go almost as soon as he makes contact, swaying her hips down to grind them on his. Then she pulls herself upright and turns around again, sitting on his lap this time. She spreads her legs wide on either side of his and leans forward until her hands are on the ground.
He immediately grabs the bottom of the chair again. She pushes her butt against his hips so hard he thinks it might actually leave a bruise. If she’s trying to rub against his cock, she’s probably disappointed; he’s completely soft and uncomfortable with the contact at best.
He’s also trying not to look at her ass. It’s a nice ass, he figures, and from this angle he can definitely tell that whoever waxes her deserves a raise, but besides that his mind is just full of white noise and a deep desire for the song she’s dancing on him to end.
It does end, but not before she swings back around, waving her tits in his face again. When the music switches over and her body stops moving, he lets out a sigh of relief. But before he’s free, she leans down to kiss his cheek, whispering, “Let me know if you ever want a more private kind of dance.”
He smiles politely, or at least he tries. If he hurries her off of his lap, he can’t really help it. He’s reached his limit. He’s ready to go home.
“Mate, that was so good,” Chris tells him. The other two raise their hands for high fives and George unenthusiastically meets them in the air.
Henry asks, “Did you get her number? You should. She was into you.”
George avoids the question. “Honestly, guys, I’m gonna go home. I’m not feeling great. Think I need to get some sleep.”
“What?” Chris shouts. “Come on, George, don’t be like that. The night is so young!”
“It’s, like, one in the morning,” George points out. Truthfully, by his standards, the night is still young, but they don’t need to know that.
“Guys, it’s fine. If he wants to be a little bitch about it, he can go home.”
When George rolls his eyes, annoyed, Trent hauls him in for a one-armed hug. “Oh, just kidding, mate. You know we love ya.”
The other two pile in then, obnoxiously group hugging him, and George can’t help but laugh. He’d been wondering all night why he was ever friends with these guys. It was proximity, of course, but they were also genuinely nice guys. Tonight, he’s just been bombarded by the drunk and horny sides of them, which are not George’s favorite sides.
He doesn’t see much of a future for his friendship with them, but at least he can walk away remembering why it existed in the first place.
He leaves the club after making empty promises to be better about staying in touch and he orders himself an Uber instead of walking the 20 minutes or so back to his flat. While he waits, he opens Discord on his phone and goes to his messages with Dream.
Home soon, he sends. Still editing?
Dream replies almost immediately: yeah call me when you get home i wanna hear about your night
ok but keep texting me while i’m on the way , George says, because he’s never once attempted to dodge the needy allegations when it comes to Dream.
no , Dream says. just call me when you get in.
George sighs. Dream is so mean to him. He pulls up Tik Tok instead and just watches it with no sound on for the duration of the drive.
It’s raining when he gets to his flat. He stands there in the drizzle as he unlocks the door, then slips inside. Everything is quiet and he can see shadows from the window dancing on the wall as he starts up the stairs.
He’s tired and still only feeling the faint buzz of the alcohol as he strips down to just his underwear and brushes his teeth. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and is struck again by how strange it is that he’s actually a fully grown man. He spends so much of his life talking to his mostly younger friends that, when put into a social situation with people his own age, it feels strange. They went to university together, had the same experiences, but now they feel worlds apart.
He thinks about Henry proposing to his girlfriend. In a couple of years they’ll probably all be married, maybe even have kids. They’ll do things like holiday to Majorca and talk about nurseries and renovating the houses that they own.
In a couple of years, all George really wants is to be living in Florida, with Dream.
He pushes himself back from the counter and goes to get in his bed, grabbing his phone and calling Dream on Discord. It takes a few repetitions of the Discord call sound for Dream to pick up. “You took so long,” he complains immediately.
“Traffic was stupid,” George says. “It’s always stupid in London. Is it that stupid in Orlando?”
“Sometimes,” Dream says. “Like, during rush hours. But it wouldn’t be that bad at night. Where the fuck are people going in London this late?”
“It’s road works,” George says. “There are always road works.”
“Sure hope the roads work,” Dream says.
“Old meme,” George critiques.
“It’s not old,” Dream says. “It’s classic. There’s a difference. Like you. You’re not old. You’re classic.”
“And you’re stupid,” George says, scowling. It’s weird how that hits a little harder than it should. He might be a little more drunk than he thought. Maybe that’s why he says, “I’m still prettier than you.”
“You are,” Dream readily agrees.
“I saw a pretty girl tonight,” George says. “I saw lots of her.”
“I… what?” Dream asks.
George hasn’t actually told him where they ended up.
“I saw her boobs,” George says. “And her like–bits.”
“Boobs and bits.” Dream repeats him dryly. “Wow, sexy.”
“They dragged me to a strip club and bought me a lap dance. I touched her, Dream.”
There’s a brief pause, a beat of silence that feels strangely heavy. George can’t tell if it’s the alcohol in his system or if there’s something to it.
“Where’d you touch her?” Dream asks, his voice dropping in volume.
George tries to remember. It’s already blurring together a bit. “Her waist. Her hip. Her–I touched her boob, kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Like, the side. She put my hand on her.”
“Fuck,” Dream mumbles. “That’s hot.”
It wasn’t, really, but the low rasp of Dream’s voice makes George want to push further, to hear more of this side of him. Not that he–not that it would ever be like that between them. George isn’t delusional enough to think that it could be, but he’s masochistic enough to want to get just a little bit closer.
“They were right in my face. Like, she was shaking them around and they almost hit me.”
“God,” Dream says, all breath. “Did you get hard? I mean, how could you not?”
George bites his lip, turning onto his side on his bed. He still hasn’t gotten under the covers. Too much work.
“No, Dream, I didn’t.”
“How is that even possible?”
George takes a deep breath, not sure if he’s psyching himself up or talking himself down. Telling his uni mates is–there’s no point to it. He’ll see them maybe once a year at best. But telling Dream? It’s inevitable. He’s avoided it this long, but he can’t avoid it forever. Not with his best friend.
He closes his eyes and says, “I wasn’t attracted to her.”
Dream doesn’t get it. He snorts and says, “Oh, he has such high standards,” in a silly little voice.
George can’t help but grin. He loves when Dream is silly. It doesn’t happen a lot; he’s always too focused on the next big project to let loose. But sometimes, in these private moments, George gets this side of him. And he loves it.
“It’s not that she wasn’t good enough,” George explains, his smile still lingering on his lips. “It’s that she was a she.”
Silence fills the line for maybe ten seconds that feel more like ten hours, but he’s weirdly not afraid. He just–he knows Dream. He’s not afraid of hatred or anger, but just of awkwardness.
“Oh,” Dream finally says, and then, “Oh my god, I’m so dumb. ”
It’s George’s turn to be surprised. “You’re dumb? What?”
“You’re gay,” Dream says, but it comes out like a question.
George frowns. “Yeah? Why does that make you dumb?”
“Sorry,” Dream says quickly, talking fast like his brain is going a mile a minute. “I’m just thinking back and, like–of course you’re gay.”
“Of course I’m gay?” George laughs. “Wait, like. What does that mean? Dream, what do you mean?”
“No, I just–” Dream is obviously and immediately flustered. “You just haven’t–you haven’t had a girlfriend. Or even like, flirted with people online, even when someone is interested.”
“Well,” George says. “Not when women are interested, at least.”
“Wait, you’ve–who?” Dream demands. “Who were you flirting with online?”
George laughs. “No one.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe,” George says. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s–it’s nothing,” Dream says. “But… wait, why did you go to a strip club if you’re gay ?”
“Because my uni friends don’t know I’m gay. Idiot.”
“So you just pretended to be into it all night?” Dream asks. He sounds curious now, and… something else, maybe. “How?”
Or George is just hearing what he wants to hear.
“You’ve never pretended to be into someone?” George asks. It’s alien to him. He’s done it most of his life. He even dated a girl for a month at university, his best acting to date.
“No,” Dream says. “Girls are hot. I’ve never had to pretend.”
“Ugh,” George groans. “Shut up. Stop… rizz-bragging.”
“I’m not–it’s not bragging. And I didn’t say they were all interested in me . But… like. What did you do? With her?”
“I dunno,” George says. “Just sat there.”
“What is a lap dance even?” Dream asks. “Like, what do they do? I’ve never been to a strip club.”
“I think the guys just asked a waitress if they could get someone to give a lap dance. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. But then she came over and just, like, kind of slowly wiggled her body.”
He barely hears a soft sound of interest from Dream before he asks, “What was she wearing?”
George rolls onto his back again, keenly aware of the silence in the room, nothing but Dream’s voice in his ear to focus on. It’s almost intimate, talking about this right now. It’s so late and they’re both in bed and–and George knows that Dream is turned on. He can hear it in his voice.
If it takes describing a female stripper to get to hear more of that, then George will describe every inch of her body.
“She started in this black bra and she had on this tiny skirt that didn’t even cover her ass. And her pants, they were, like–I slipped a note into them and I could see everything.”
“Fuck,” Dream breathes out, almost laughing. “And that did nothing for you?”
“She was pretty. She had a nice body,” George explains with a little shrug. “I didn’t want to fuck her, but I can appreciate that she was hot.”
“Tell me more,” Dream implores. “Let me live vicariously.”
George giggles at the edge of desperation in Dream’s voice. “I don’t know what else to say. She took off her bra. Like I said, she was waving her boobs right in my face.”
“Were they big?”
George tries to think back. He doesn’t know much about bra sizes or anything, so he couldn’t even guess at that. “They were big but not too big. I think they would fit in my hand. Definitely would fit in yours.”
Dream almost moans then, but he chokes it down right away to mask it. It’s enough though; the sound goes straight to George’s dick. He lets his eyelids flutter shut and tries to picture what Dream would look like right now as he goes on.
“She ground her ass down on my lap, too. She told me I could touch her even though I wasn’t supposed to. She said she liked me.”
“Of course she did,” Dream says. George isn’t even sure if Dream realizes the tone he’s using right now.
“What–what does that mean?” George asks.
“Just… I don’t know,” Dream says. “You’re you. Who wouldn’t like you? You’re hot. Don’t be stupid, George. You already know this.”
He knows that Dream thinks he’s attractive, objectively, but acknowledging that someone is attractive isn't the same as being attracted to someone. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to hear it again. “I’m just me.”
“You’re you ,” Dream says again, stressing it. “I wish you had a picture of her.”
“They definitely don’t allow that,” George says. “They have big signs everywhere saying no pictures with the dancers. I think it’s for their privacy.”
“That makes sense,” Dream says. “So they don’t have to deal with lots of creeps posting pictures of them online.”
“Oh, Dream. You think people who get lap dances are creeps ?”
Dream realizes his error. “No, not like–not like that. Just, you know, statistically there are some creeps there, even if everyone there isn’t a creep. There would be some. That’s all I’m saying.”
George laughs and lets him off the hook, focusing on the other implication of what Dream said. “So you’d want to see me get a lap dance?”
Dream takes longer to reply this time. In the stretch of silence between them, George can hear a faint rustling. It doesn’t take much imagination to think that it could be fingers moving against fabric. Over or under, he can’t tell. His blood rushes, heats his cheeks and starts to fill his cock.
He reaches a hand down and just rests it on himself, not moving his fingers to touch yet.
“Just like, objectively,” Dream finally says. “I’m curious about the… the visuals there. Can you–just like. For science . What were you wearing?”
George almost chokes on his own spit. It's one thing telling him what the dancer was wearing, but it’s different talking about himself. He can’t even tell if this is–if Dream is into this like he is. He sounds like he’s into it, but maybe George is misreading the whole situation.
“I was wearing black jeans and a Supreme shirt. That was black too.”
“Was,” Dream says, and at first George doesn’t understand. But then Dream clarifies, saying, “You said ‘was’ like you’re not wearing that anymore. You changed?”
George takes a nervous breath, his fingers tracing the spot where his dick is pressing just a bit at his underwear, interested in everything happening, but but fully hard yet,
“I’m in bed,” he explains, his skin burning hot. “I took off my clothes first.”
Dream exhales hard enough that George can hear the air. “You’re–are you naked?”
“I have boxers on,” he explains. “Why? What are you wearing?”
“Just a t-shirt and sweatpants.”
George doesn’t have the filter to keep him from asking, “Gray sweatpants?”
Dream chuckles softly. “They are, actually, yeah. And honestly, after all that talk about the stripper, I’ve got a bit of a situation.”
There’s a wave of disappointment that washes over him, but of course it’s the thought of the stripper getting Dream turned on. The little part of him that thought it might have been him, that he might have been part of what was turning Dream on–that part of him is an idiot.
“Yeah?” he asks, trying to mask his disappointment. “Maybe you should let me go so you can take care of that.”
“I will,” Dream says. “In a few minutes. But like… tell me more, first? Just so I have more to think about.”
Oh. So… Dream is really going for it. Maybe not quite the direction George would like, but he can’t resist the high of knowing he’s responsible for making Dream hard, even if he’s just the delivery vehicle.
“The bottoms she was wearing were so tiny,” George says. “I could see her entire ass. They were like–thongs. Is that what you call them? They were thongs. It was like, one little piece up her ass, and it didn’t cover anything else either. I could see her, you know.”
“Pussy,” Dream says. His voice is huskier again. “You could see her pussy?”
“Yeah, like, part of it. The outside parts,” George says. “It was really smooth. What I could see of it.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No,” George says. “No touching.”
“But she let you touch,” Dream says. “You said that.”
“They make you grab the bottom of the chair, unless they decide your hands can go places. I think you’re supposed to like, wait for them,” George explains.
“Oh,” Dream says. There’s another few seconds where George can hear the bed squeak a little. It could just be Dream moving around, though. “You touched her tits. Anything else?”
“I touched her hip when I put the note in,” George says. “And I guess it wasn’t with my hands, but she pushed her whole chest against mine.”
“Without a bra on?”
“Yeah,” George says.
“So it was just her tits against your chest… in the black t-shirt.” Dream makes a faint sound. “That’s so…”
George feels daring. “What is it, Dream?”
“Hot,” Dream admits.
“You think it’s hot.”
“Yeah,” Dream says. “Tell me more.”
There’s really not much more to tell. But… George has an imagination. He might not use it all that often, but he still has one. He can indulge in some creative writing for this conversation. For Dream. For Dream’s hard on.
“She was wet,” George says. “I could smell her.”
“ What ?” Dream groans.
George wonders if he maybe got a little too creative too quickly, but he can hear Dream swearing under his breath like he’s going to lose it, and George wants him to. He wants to make him so horny he forgets where he is.
“You know the smell they get?”
“Yeah, George, I know the fucking smell,” Dream practically hisses. “Why do you know the smell?”
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’ve never tried, you know?”
Dream breathes for a minute, ragged breaths in and out. “You’ve–you’ve had sex with a girl?”
George shifts on the bed. He doesn’t want to focus on this. He wants to focus on getting Dream hard.
“Not quite,” he answers honestly. “I’ve done stuff. I know the smell. I just never stuck my dick in.”
“Jesus,” Dream says. “Okay, wait. Back to the stripper. She was wet? Was she literally just that into you?”
“I don’t know,” George answers. “I guess. When it was over, she said to let her know if I ever want a private dance. I think she would have let me fuck her honestly.”
“Fuck, I almost wish you did,” Dream says. “Like, for me.”
George finally wraps his hand around himself through his boxers. He feels light-headed. “Imagine–like, if she said it was okay–imagine I put you on speakerphone so you could listen.”
“Oh my god,” Dream whispers. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, George.”
George swallows, his hips rolling up to push his dick into his palm. God, he feels crazy. This is crazy.
“Or would you rather watch?” he asks, hoping that Dream can’t hear the tremble in his voice as he touches himself. “Would you rather see her?”
“Watch,” Dream says. “I want to watch. What color hair did she have? Describe her.”
“Kinda red. It was probably dyed, but it looked natural. She didn’t have any pubes so I couldn’t say for sure. But it was red. And her skin was super pale. Like milk. Like… cream.”
“Fuck,” Dream says, his voice shaking. “She was wet. You were turning her on.”
“She kept trying to rub against my dick,” George says. “Like she wanted to know if I was hard.”
“But you weren’t?”
“Not for her,” George answers honestly. “But maybe if someone were listening… or watching… that might be hot.”
“Someone,” Dream repeats.
“If you were watching. You could just watch, though. Through the screen. You couldn’t touch her. You’d just watch me touching her.”
“Where would you touch her?” Dream asks.
“Wherever you tell me to,” George says. He wants to see what Dream does with this bit of power.
What he does is groan, the first open sound he’s made. George’s dick is so hard he could pound nails right now. Or pound something. Or get pounded by something.
“Want you to touch her tits,” Dream says. “I want to see your hands on them. Your fingers are, like–delicate. You touch things carefully. You’d touch her carefully.”
He doesn’t know when Dream did such an involved study on his hands, but he doesn’t need to know that right now. “I’d hold her breasts,” George says. “And touch her nipples. Like–pull at them. Is that what you want?”
“Yeah,” Dream says. There’s a plastic snapping sound.
“Dream,” George says.
“Yeah?”
“Did you get lube?”
“... Is that–I’m sorry. George, I’m sorry, that’s–”
“Use plenty,” George says. “Get your dick as wet as she’s going to get mine.”
There’s a brief pause, a moment of hesitation before Dream asks, “Are you sure? You don’t mind?”
“Yes. I mean, no. No, I don’t mind. But yes, I’m sure.”
“If you change your mind,” Dream says, but George interrupts before he can finish his sentence.
“I’m not going to. Shut up. Get yourself–get yourself wet, Dream.”
Dream groans again and George can hear the sound of him squirting lube into his hand, can almost hear the slickness of it as he spreads it over his dick. Almost.
“Put the phone close for a second,” he says. “I want to hear how wet it is.”
“Like–you want me to touch myself? So you can hear?”
George nods, even though Dream can’t see him. All of the blood in his body is in his cock, so his brain is running on fumes. “If you’re okay with it, yeah.”
Dream doesn’t answer. There’s shuffling, the phone moving too much for George to hear anything for a couple of seconds, but then it goes quiet and George strains to hear and–
He nearly comes when he hears the slick squelch of Dream’s hand on his cock, jerking himself off. He actually has to grip himself at the base of his own dick to keep from fucking into his hand and coming on the spot.
It’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. This is the hottest thing he’s ever done.
It only lasts maybe ten or fifteen seconds, but it’s enough. When Dream’s voice comes back, asking if he could hear okay, George can barely process words. His brain is melted. It’s gone.
“I heard,” he forces out. “Fuck, I heard it.”
“George,” Dream moans.
“You’d be able to hear it too,” George says, just desperate now to see how far this will go. “If I fucked her, you’d hear it. I’d get my dick in her and it would sound just like that. She’d feel so hot around me. And, like, wet. Gripping me.”
Dream moans again. “Are you–”
“Yeah,” George says. There’s no point in being coy about it now. He puts his phone on speaker and shoves his boxers down, kicking them off. “Is that okay?”
“Do it,” Dream says. “I want to hear you, too.”
“I don’t have any lube,” George says. “Not here.”
“You don’t use it?”
“I do,” George says. “But it’s in the bathroom.”
The wet, sloppy sounds don’t stop. Dream must have left his phone close. “Why the bathroom?”
“I needed it in there last night,” George explains. “I used a dildo while I was in the shower.”
Dream makes a sound so desperate that George actually thinks he might have come. “George–”
“I could fuck her while I had one in,” George says.
“Yeah,” Dream says. “Or–or.”
“Or?” George holds his breath.
“Or I could.”
“You could what, Dream?” George asks. His hand is flying so fast on his cock he feels like he’s about to break the sound barrier. His entire body feels on fire. His balls are drawn up tight and tiny against his body. His ass is clenching around nothing, imagining–imagining–
“I could fuck you,” Dream says. “While you fuck her.”
The sound that escapes him is one he’s never heard himself make. If he felt crazy before, this is a whole other level.
“Fuck,” he says, the word scraping desperately out of his throat. “Fuck–fuck me.”
“Yeah,” Dream says, sounding every bit as close as George is. “Yeah, George. Oh my god.”
It hits him then, his orgasm unstoppable. He jerks himself off right through it, come splattering his stomach like drops of paint flying from a brush and hitting the canvas. It’s unlike any other orgasm he’s had. It feels like–it feels like Dream is giving it to him. Dream is the one making him come.
Before George is even finished, Dream is coming too, moaning into the phone. George knows that he’s thinking about the girl, about pussy and tits, but he’s also thinking about George, at least a little. And maybe that doesn’t mean anything, but it’s still hot as fuck. If nothing else, this will be a memory for him to jerk off to for years to come.
“George,” Dream says.
He sounds dazed, and… something else. George can’t really put a finger on it. But it stops him from withdrawing completely, from assuming that Dream is about to try and forget this even happened.
“Yeah,” George says. He looks down at the come on his stomach, then drags one finger through it. It’s always fun to play with while it’s still warm.
“That was…”
“Yeah,” George says again, pleased.
“You’re so…”
“I’m so what?”
“I don’t even know.” Dream laughs. His voice is so soft. That’s what the word is; he sounds soft.
“You are an idiot,” George says, and maybe he sounds soft, too.
“Would you really do that?” Dream asks. “Fuck a woman? You sounded into it.”
“No,” George says. “That’s not the part I was into.”
“Wow. Wow.” Dream sighs. “You’re so…”
“You already said that. What am I, Dream?” George asks.
Dream is silent for a moment and George should be freaking out, but he’s weirdly calm. After everything, after the lap dance and coming out to his best friend and then having what was essentially phone sex with said best friend, he has plenty to freak out over. But he’s not. It’s weird.
“What if I said,” Dream starts slowly, quietly, “you’re so hot?”
The words warm through George like sunshine. “Hot, Dream? Hot? ”
Dream’s giggle is every bit as soft as his voice has been. “Yeah. What do you think about that?”
“I don’t know,” George says, thinking ahead to tomorrow and the next day. He’s not sure what any of this means for their friendship. He doesn’t even know what it means for Dream, if it’s anything like it is for George. Maybe he’s just high off his orgasm and talking out of his ass.
But George isn’t freaking out. Maybe he will tomorrow, but not tonight. Not now. So he says, “I guess I don’t mind.”
“Good,” Dream says, and George can hear his smile.
“As long as you don’t mind that I’d rather get fucked by you than put my dick in a woman,” George says. If the boundaries don’t exist right now for Dream, why should they for him?
“You can’t say that,” Dream says, groaning. “I can’t–George. I can’t get hard again this fast.”
Okay. So maybe that wasn’t too far. They can both say it was just the orgasms talking if there are any regrets in the morning.
“Would you really?” George asks, out of curiosity.
“You know you’re hot,” Dream says. He sounds as sincere as he always does and right now it feels like his voice is squeezing George’s heart. “You know I think you’re hot. I have since - I don’t know. Since I started thinking guys were hot.”
“You think other guys are hot, too?” George asks. Now his heart is just full on stopping.
“Yeah, it’s like… I don’t know what that makes me. I don’t have any actual–well, I have this now. And, um. This was good. But I’ve never actually touched a dick before. Besides my own, of course. So I guess–there’s always the chance I see a guy naked and I think no thanks. But when I just imagine it. Or when I’m watching porn and the guy is hot. I notice it. So I guess… yeah. I think other guys are hot, too.”
George’s brain feels like it’s been scrambled inside of his head.
“So you’re not straight?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Dream says. “I guess–I can’t say I’m not straight. But I can’t say I am, either.”
“What we just did isn’t very straight,” George says.
“Well. Well, okay. In that case. I’m probably not straight.”
He knows Dream well enough to know that this is probably the clearest answer he’s going to get out of Dream, so he stops questioning him. Then he just laughs.
“What?” Dream asks.
“Sapnap is the heterosexual minority in the Dream team now.”
“George-” Dream laughs, too. “Don’t bring Nick up while I still have jizz on me.”
George’s laughter turns quickly into a frown. “Oh, good point, actually. That’s a good rule.”
“A rule, huh? Like, if this happens again, you mean?”
George’s heart jumps into his throat. “Maybe?” He clears his throat to try to calm his nerves. “Just–can I talk less about boobs next time? Or is that, like, a necessary part of this?”
“Dumbass,” Dream mutters, still so soft. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re hot before you figure it out?”
“There’s a difference between thinking someone is attractive and being attracted to them,” George points out.
“Let me put it this way,” Dream says. “I just came while I was thinking about fucking you. What does that tell you?”
“You were thinking about fucking me while I fucked a hot girl,” George corrects, because that’s an important detail.
But Dream says, “No, George. I was thinking about her before, but when I came, it was just you in my head. It was just you making me come.”
“Dream.” George is uncharacteristically flustered.
“Don’t talk about boobs next time,” Dream says. “Just… talk about me and you. If that works?”
“Yeah,” George says, swallowing. “That works for me.”
“It works for me too,” Dream says, the words followed by a little laugh. “God, I did not think that this is where the night was going. I’m glad it did though.”
George agrees right as his phone buzzes with an incoming text. He expects it to be one of his mates, maybe, but when he pulls up the new text, Dream still on speakerphone, he chokes out a surprised laugh.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Dream asks, confused.
George stares at his phone, in disbelief. There, on the screen, is a picture of the stripper who gave him a lap dance. Mostly, it’s her boobs spilling out of her black bra, but her face is in it too. Below the image is a text: your friends gave me your number, i realized i never gave you mine. if you ever want that private dance xx
“The stripper texted me,” he says, in shock. “I can’t believe—she got my number from my mates.”
“Oh my god,” Dream laughs. “Are you fucking kidding me? She’s so desperate for that dick. Wait. Am I jealous? I think I’m jealous.”
George’s stomach drops. “Well, she sent me a selfie if you want to see what she looks like.”
“If I–what? I don’t want to see her. I’m not–it’s not you I’m jealous of, George.”
Oh. He still finds it hard to believe that Dream wants him. It may take some time for that to sink in.
“Okay,” he says, trying to believe it. He looks down at himself and groans. His come isn’t warm anymore and now it’s just uncomfortable. “I really need to clean myself up. Want me to let you go?”
Dream seems to consider this before saying, “What if I wanted to stay on the phone? We can have a little sleepover.”
George smiles. Maybe it won’t take so long for it to sink in. Not if Dream is going to be a total simp.
“Fine,” he sighs.
Dream stays on the phone with him while he cleans off his stomach and brushes teeth, while he climbs into bed, and while he drifts off. Not for the first time, he falls asleep wishing Dream was with him. This time, though, it feels a little different. A lot different, maybe.
Maybe it’s a lot different.