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George is selfish. It’s not something he’s ever denied.
He’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of Dream’s car and he sees just as the street lamps turn on, so he tells him. “The street lamps just turned on.” It’s a pointless thing to announce in retrospect, but Dream turns and smiles at him in that knowing way he often does.
Selfish, George thinks, as Dream places his large, warm hand on his thigh. His eyes go soft when he smiles at him, expression wide open and on display as if he’s never known betrayal; the car vibrates and then jolts suddenly as it veers onto the rumble strips and Dream jerks the wheel to straighten them back out. Something of a thrill runs up the back of George’s neck.
They arrive at home and kick off their shoes near the front door. George’s belly is full and he feels warm and taken care of. In thanks, he makes sure to neatly line his shoes up against the wall, and then he does Dream’s, too.
Dream doesn’t respond. Not verbally, at least. That same look softens his appearance, and he steps forward and presses his lips to George’s forehead. Selfish.
“Goodnight,” Dream says, turning to head down the hallway toward his room, fondness gracing his features. He doesn’t ask if George wants to go with him.
That’s a more recent development — sharing a bed. It isn’t very night that they do, and George thinks he prefers it that way. He thinks Dream probably does, too, although he doesn’t think he’d mind otherwise, either.
It sort of just… happened. Accidentally, at first, and then on purpose.
Dream is gentle with him. He holds George tenderly, almost delicately, like he’ll shatter if he squeezes too tight.
In the beginning, when the tension between them was still slowly stretching thin and hadn’t yet snapped, there were nights where Dream’s desire was so intense that it was tangible, thickening the air surrounding them. It would thrum throughout his entire body, spread down his limbs all the way to his fingertips so that when he squeezed George’s hip or fit his palm around the curve of his waist, it seeped into him like he was absorbing it through his skin.
Dream’s body was ringing at a frequency that matched his own in perfect harmony, one that neither of them could hear, but that they could sense, physically. And George did — he felt it like Dream’s body was calling out to his own. But, his selfishness wasn’t new, and he wanted nothing more than to watch Dream lose the battle with himself. To feel the tremble of his hands as he slid them lower down George’s back, out of his own control. He wanted to watch Dream grow weak for him until he crumbled in the dip of George’s spine.
“Fuck,” Dream pants, wet and needy, arching his back to get him closer. His ass is warm and soft underneath George’s hands where he kneads and pulls at the fat of it to spread him open.
Eating Dream is the opposite of an out-of-body experience. It’s consuming. It’s visceral. George becomes his nerves and his senses; every little twitch and every sound ripples through him, signals firing off in little bursts of electricity.
He likes the messiness, too, feeling his own spit smear down his chin, letting his brain turn off while he loses himself in it. He swears the taste of Dream’s ass post workout, sans shower could sustain him.
“God,” he murmurs, before diving back into the center of him. He pushes his tongue inside, and pictures, vaguely — short of anything grotesque enough to kill his boner — digging out a place for himself. Or perhaps burrowing into him. Getting inside of him and carving out his body until he’s hollow, just so he can fill the empty space. Dream is so warm, here, and endlessly warmer inside — George kind of wants to stick a thermometer in his ass and see the exact temperature.
He accidentally icks himself out when he has the thought that Dream’s internal body temperature is probably perfect to create his own little habitat in, because the general thought of breeding is already on the back burner — always is, when they’re fucking — and the two don’t mesh appetizingly. Still, though, the concept accompanied by the sharp taste of Dream and the smell of his sweat is so overwhelmingly arousing that he starts grinding into the mattress because he feels like he might die if he doesn’t.
“George,” Dream whines. His voice is thick. He’s probably drooling.
He loves seeing Dream like this. Having him like this. It isn’t even the fact that they’re having sex; he knows he isn’t the only one who’s had sex with Dream. He isn’t even the only one who’s having sex with Dream, like, regularly, but he chooses not to think about that in order to spare himself the unpleasant feeling that sizzles in his stomach whenever he does.
There’s something about this — Dream lying on his stomach, spread open for George, writhing and trembling under his tongue. It makes him feel greedy in a sick and addictive way, because he is. He is greedy.
George groans into him, squeezing his ass so it dips underneath his fingertips. He pulls back to admire Dream’s wet hole, the dusky pink of it and the way the surrounding hair is plastered against Dream’s skin with his spit. “Love your ass,” he says, mindless and gruff. “Perfect little hole. Tastes so good for me.”
As if it hears him, Dream’s hole flutters like it’s begging for George to come back, and so he does. And after Dream comes, twitching through it and grunting around his whimpers, George gets up on his knees and rips off his shorts, planting one hand on Dream’s ass to hold him open and using the other to pull himself off. He tips his hips forward until the head of his cock presses flush to his rim; Dream makes a wounded little noise when he feels it, and then George is coming, the feeling monumentally heightened by the added friction of his cockhead just barely rubbing against Dream’s hole. His cum pulses out onto it and he holds him open, covering him in it, and smearing it into him once he comes down from the peak.
Their lives get busy again eventually.
For the better part of a year, the Dream Team was on the go. George’s first twelve months in America were spent traveling the world, attending events, meeting friends — both old and new — and making good on all of the activities they’d promised they’d do together once he finally got there. And then his world turned upside down, and he spent the following year doing nothing. No work. No events. A complete and unplanned one-eighty from what his life had been since the minute he stepped foot in America.
He got used to it, naturally. He didn’t enjoy it, and he wasn’t happy about it, but it’s just how things had to be. So when he goes to Twitchcon with Sapnap and then a month later makes his comeback to streaming and then starts posting on YouTube again, and things start to feel closer to the way they did a year ago, it’s bittersweet.
He’s glad to be getting back into the groove of things. Of course he is. It’s nice to feel like he has some sort of purpose.
But it means less time to spend with Dream, lying on the daybed in his office while he works on code, making sure he gets around to doing normal human stuff like eating, gently reminding him to take breaks so he doesn’t burn himself out. Less time just existing in the same space, and no guarantee that they’ll be part of each other’s day.
George is selfish.
The bar they’re at has colored lights — it’s possible they’re LEDs, fit to display a range of colors, but they’ve been blue since he and Dream arrived. It’s the color George sees best, and he finds that Dream looks good in it, bathed in deep-sea monochrome. Though, ultimately, George prefers him in regular light, even if he can’t see all of the colors the way they’re meant to look.
He’s watching Dream now from across the bar. He’d gone to get George another drink, and when George looked over a minute or so later he was talking to a woman seated on one of the barstools. He can’t see all of his face from this angle, but he’s smiling and the woman is leaning into him. She’s flirting with him, clearly. Not that George can blame her.
Well, that’s fine, he decides. Maybe George is already tipsy off the two drinks he’s had, or maybe he’s just petty, but it seems as though Dream is in no rush to bring him his drink. He’ll just have to find someone else to buy him one.
He scans across the bar, welcoming the twinge of adrenaline that sparks at the thought of finding a stranger to flirt with, superseding the murky feeling that’d settled in his stomach. It’s different knowing he isn’t the only one sleeping with Dream, and actually seeing it.
The search is almost nostalgic, bringing him back to his days in uni when he could mess around just like anyone else his age without the fear of a burner thread blowing up the next day. He’ll be good; he won’t be messy.
His eyes catch on someone who’s already looking at him. A man, tall and built, with brown tapered hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He smiles over the rim of his glass when they make eye contact and then smoothly takes a sip of his drink. He’s with a girl, George notices — who, in all honesty, he wouldn’t mind being eyed by, either — but he doesn’t think they’re together together. His suspicion is confirmed when another girl finds her way through the crowd to join them and the man leans over to tell them something, and then he’s walking toward George with an unwavering sharp gaze.
“Hey,” the man says, once he’s in earshot.
“Hello.”
George can’t tell what color his eyes are in the blue light, but they’re pretty. He’s pretty. He’s someone George can imagine seeing on, like, a magazine cover or something, all sharp angles and symmetry, a smile so perfect it had to have been bought.
Conventional perfection has never been his type.
“I’m Mateo. And you are…?”
Mateo extends a hand with his question. George takes it and tells him his name.
“George,” Mateo repeats, smiling warmly. “Well, nice to meet you, George. Are you from around here?”
“No, actually, I’m from London. I live in Florida, though.”
Mateo’s eyes light up. “I hear the accent now,” he says, cheeky. He pauses, seeming to debate something in his head. Then, “Forgive me if I’ve completely misjudged, but, I was wondering, uh—” He pauses and smiles bashfully. It’s cute. “Could I buy you a drink?”
George looks up at him the way he knows is tantalizing. He tilts his head just so, peering up through his eyelashes with the faintest smile on his lips. Ironically, he really only learned the effect of it once he met Dream. “You haven’t misjudged.”
Mateo grins. “So, is that a yes?”
“Yes to what?” he hears from behind himself, right before a warm hand settles on the small of his back. He instantly knows it’s Dream — he would’ve even if he hadn’t heard his voice. A pulse of exciting danger ripples through him, like he’s been caught.
“Oh,” Mateo says, backing off immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were…” he trails off, glancing at George with a question in his eyes.
“He is,” Dream supplies, further crowding into George’s space. Mateo looks between the two of them like he can’t decide whether he should be concerned for George or not; George takes mercy on him, deciding that a nice stranger doesn’t need to be subjected to this game of theirs. He can find him again later if things don’t go his way.
“Thanks anyway,” he says politely. “It was nice to meet you.”
Mateo nods. “You too, George,” he says, and then he turns and walks away, presumably to locate his friends. Dream doesn’t move.
“Who was that?” he asks, calculatedly casual. George turns his head to look at him. He’s close enough to catch a hint of his cologne, the citrus notes melding with the smell of the bar: a distinct mix of sweat, beer, and dirt. It’s a little gross if he thinks about it but he kind of likes it anyway.
“His name’s Mateo.”
Dream hums. “What’d he want?”
“He wanted to buy me a drink,” George tells him. He presses onward before Dream can comment. “That was kind of rude.”
Dream’s eyes unmistakably flicker down to his lips. “I don’t really care.” George shudders despite how humid it is. The hand on his back twitches. “Wanna go home?”
George feels himself grin. He’s barely had anything to drink and he feels buzzed. “Who was that girl?” Dream’s gaze shifts up to meet his own again. “At the bar,” he clarifies.
“Nobody,” Dream says, and with the way he’s looking at him right now, George believes it. “Absolutely nobody.”
He presses into Dream’s space. “Okay,” he surrenders. “Let’s go home.”
He’s on top of Dream tonight. They aren’t fucking, not yet, but the hard line of Dream’s cock keeps pressing against George’s ass and he’s starting to get impatient. He can’t look away, though.
Whenever he pulls back for a moment, Dream opens his eyes and the look on his face makes George feel powerful. He could get high on it. It’s so fucking erotic — glossy eyes lidded; pink, wet lips parted; breaths coming fast — and all they’re doing is making out. All George has done is stick his tongue in Dream’s mouth and grind on him a little and he’s looking up at him like he’s a god.
When George sits upright to pull off his shirt, Dream huffs out a breath like it was sucker-punched out of him and marvels at his bare torso as if he hasn’t seen it hundreds of times before.
George likes being admired. Especially by Dream. Especially when he looks like this — when the look on his face starts to convince him that he’s all Dream needs. Like it makes him weak. He looks at George like he’s his.
George leans forward to press their chests together again, because he thinks that if he keeps looking at Dream he might do something reckless. It’s an act of mercy for them both. He buries his face in the crook of Dream’s neck and grinds his dick into his stomach, and then licks a slow stripe up the side of his neck to hear the way his breath shakes, the salt of his sweat blooming across his tongue.
“George,” Dream says, hands finding George’s sides and sliding down to his hips.
“Dream.” He lets his mouth fall open, lips brushing the soft skin of his neck right where it meets his shoulder, making sure Dream feels his exhale before gently biting down.
The hands on his hips squeeze as Dream moans softly. George can feel it on his lips. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of him, the traces of his cologne mixed with a day’s worth of sweat, a whisper of his expensive shampoo coming in like an aftertaste. Dream’s hips buck up like it’s out of his control.
“George,” he repeats, quiet and desperate. Sometimes he gets like this, soft and pliant, and it makes George feel like an animal. Other times he’s rough and careless, overcome by his want until he takes and takes and takes. George likes that, too.
He places his hands on the sides of Dream’s face and licks into his mouth. “What do you want?” he murmurs, lips moving against his.
Dream pants. “Anything. You. Just— more.”
His chest lights up with that. You. Pride and something possessive flares inside of him. Does Dream even know what he does to him, putting himself right in the palm of George’s hand like this?
“Okay,” he breathes out.
As much as Dream’s wholehearted trust makes him feel crazed, he knows it’s something delicate — it isn’t something Dream hands over carelessly to just anyone. George wants to give him everything he wants and then some. Though, some part of him also needs Dream in a certain way tonight. It’s, like, the atmosphere, or something. It’s weighted and heady. He needs Dream in his core.
“Okay.”
He reaches into Dream’s nightstand and grabs his well-loved bottle of fancy lube, and then climbs off of him and settles down onto his stomach, lying beside him. He folds his arms and rests his head on top of them, looking at Dream, who’s looking at him.
“I want you to—” he cuts himself off as his face heats up, suddenly feeling shy. The words — I want you to fuck me — get caught in his throat, and he has this inexplicable urge to bury his face into the mattress and hide. His heart isn’t racing, but his pulse ticks up a couple notches and he squirms to curb the itch of discomfort spreading across the entire expanse of his skin.
“Want me to what?” Dream prompts softly, searching what’s visible of George’s face and not hidden in his forearms. He’s so stupidly earnest, like George could ask him to crack open his chest and let him memorize the density of his ribs and all he’d ask in response is where the closest knife is.
Aiming for a less crude version of what he was originally going to say, George admits, “I want you— in me.”
Dream exhales harshly.
“I want— I can still, like, do the work, if you want. I just— I want you inside tonight. If that’s alright.”
“Fuck, George,” Dream rasps, all breath. He’s so transparently turned on — the reaction goes straight to George’s dick. “Yeah. Of course that’s okay. God.” He starts to sit up, eager, and then pauses before moving into George’s space. “Did you— I mean, do you want me to prep you?”
George purposefully ignores the sensory memory of having Dream’s long fingers inside of him. “Um, you don’t have to. I can just do it quickly. If you don’t want to do the work, I mean.”
“George, what— do the work? What are you talking about? This isn’t, like, transactional.” He’s speaking passionately, but he doesn’t sound angry.
“I know it isn’t,” George tells him. “I just— I dunno. I feel, like, bad. Because I was kind of, like, leading or whatever.”
“George,” Dream huffs. “If you think focusing on you doesn’t do anything for me, you’re an idiot.”
“Oh.” It’s not that he thought otherwise, but hearing it is… good. He likes that.
“So, can I?”
George shifts his hips, his insides fluttering with anticipation. “Okay. Yeah.”
Dream doesn’t hesitate, straddling the backs of George’s legs and working his shorts and boxers off. He doesn’t bother with his shirt, taking the lube from him and slicking up his fingers, rubbing them together because he knows George hates it when it’s cold.
Dream’s weight on his legs feels nice. Grounding. His clean hand settles on George’s ass, pulling his cheek to the side to open him up, exposing his most intimate place. His legs aren’t even spread. His face grows warmer.
“Ready?” Dream asks, kneading the fat of his ass gently.
“Yeah,” George says, arching his back the tiny bit that he can in his position. He grabs a pillow and hugs it under his head.
He sighs into the fabric when Dream sinks the first finger into him, his body accepting it easily. His eyes flutter shut when the finger twists inside him, the sensation familiar yet jarring all the same, never quite prepared for it despite how many times they do this. He lets himself melt into the bed to enjoy the slow pleasure of being stretched open.
By the time he’s got three fingers inside of him, George has to consciously stop himself from rutting against the mattress in search of some stimulation — Dream’s been expertly avoiding his prostate, and he wants to hold onto his dignity for as long as possible.
“Dream,” he says, wiggling his hips.
“Hmm?”
George huffs. Frustration bubbles up in his chest suddenly, having been patient throughout Dream’s unnecessarily slow prep just to be ignored when he’s finally ready, rock hard and leaking pre onto the sheets. The slow-building, unhurried softness of it abruptly becomes unbearable.
“Are you actually going to fuck me, or should I call Mateo?”
Dream freezes, his hand going still. George’s adrenaline spikes. Before he can protest, the fingers inside of him are gone. He mourns the loss deeply, clenching around nothing; the places Dream’s hands had been touching feel cold once he takes them away, and it sends a shiver down his spine. The silence is almost scarier than whatever else Dream could’ve done. George doesn’t know what he was expecting — the words just spilled out of him.
He hears the click of the lube bottle being opened, and then the slick sound of Dream coating his dick in it. George can feel his pulse against the side of his neck.
In the end, the extensive prep is worth it; without warning, Dream pushes into him all in one go. It knocks a shattered moan from him, fingers grasping at the pillow as Dream’s hips meet his ass.
“Yeah?” Dream grunts, his big hands back on the globes of George’s ass, kneading and pulling, spreading him open. “Is that who you want? You think some random looking for a quick fuck could make you feel better than I do?”
George tries to babble a response, fighting to recover from the shock of being filled by Dream’s thick cock so suddenly, even more thrown by the words that followed — but Dream starts fucking him long and deep and all that comes out is a mortifying, pathetic moan, pitched up into more of a whine. The embarrassment runs through him thick and hot, warming him all over and making his prick twitch against the mattress.
“Dream,” he pleads.
One of Dream’s hands moves to the small of his back, pressing him down against the bed, and the other lightly slaps his ass before continuing its groping.
George loves this.
“Tell me, George. Tell me you want someone else.”
George’s breath hitches, almost hiccuping. He kind of feels like he could cry, suddenly.
“Tell me someone else has ever made you feel this good.”
“Dream—” He’s fucking him so good he can barely think. He loves this.
“Tell me.”
Dream bends forward, caging George in with hands on either side of his head, and the angle makes it so that his dick rubs firmly against his prostate perfectly with each thrust. George’s cock, trapped between his belly and the mattress, drags and grinds against the bed with the movement, the friction deliciously overwhelming. A broken noise is forced out of him as his stomach churns with the familiar tight feeling of an oncoming orgasm. It’s humiliating how fast he’s getting there.
“No,” he cries, feeling delirious with the pleasure of being completely surrounded by Dream. “No, they— they haven’t. Don’t— ah— don’t want anyone else.”
“That’s right,” Dream grunts, dropping his head forward until George feels his breath against the nape of his neck, hot and damp. “No one else can make you feel like this.”
It isn’t a question, and there isn’t even a trace of arrogance behind it, but George whines out a weak yes anyway. He’s getting so close so fast. His brain can’t form any other words.
Suddenly, he feels something prod at his entrance alongside Dream’s dick — a finger, rubbing at where they’re connected. George’s eyes fly open just as Dream mumbles, “This is mine.”
“Oh, holy f—” The word breaks off into a guttural moan, his throat feeling raw. “Dream, I’m coming, fuck— you’re making me come,” he whimpers, letting Dream’s movements push him over the edge, going limp as he fucks into him and makes him grind against the bed. The tension in his belly snaps as his orgasm crashes into him fast and hard. He can feel it all the way behind his eyeballs. He can’t do anything but lie there and take it, let Dream fuck him through it as he shakes underneath him.
When he comes down from the high of it he hears Dream grunting and mumbling filth as he presumably approaches the end of his own line.
“Fuck, that’s it. So tight for me when you come on my dick, baby.”
George feels him pull back and sit upright on his knees, his hands returning to his ass to spread him apart and watch where he slides in and out of him. If he hadn’t just had an orgasm he’d be getting hard again from witnessing Dream spur himself on, doing what he knows will get him there.
It’s only another few moments before he grunts and stills when he’s as far in as he can go, spilling inside George with tiny little thrusts to work himself through it, fucking his cum into him. The only noise filling the silence as Dream comes down from his high is their panting.
“Fuck,” Dream says a moment later, rubbing George’s ass almost appreciatingly. “That was good.” He pauses, seems to second guess himself; “Was that— it wasn’t too much, was it?”
“Mm, no,” George says, wriggling contentedly. “It was good.”
“Yeah?” Dream asks, beginning to knead at his lower back. He digs his thumbs into the area that he knows tends to get sore after they fuck like this.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Good.”
Dream pulls out gently, thumbing at George’s rim afterward like he’s coaxing his cum out of it. George makes a noise of complaint, sensitive and sleepy and too spent to get horny again. Reluctantly, Dream pulls back, informing him that he’s going to go get a washcloth to clean him up.
George nuzzles into the pillow as Dream enters the ensuite. After such an eventful night, a weighted blanket of fatigue drapes over him compellingly, but he knows he’ll regret it if he falls asleep. His cum is going to dry smeared between the sheets and his belly.
Dream is quiet when he returns wearing a pair of boxers, and gentle as he wipes George down, just as he always is. It does nothing to help the fact that he’s currently fighting sleep, but he basks in the soothing attention anyway.
After Dream has nudged George to roll onto his back in order to clean his stomach and soft prick, he murmurs, “I gotta change the sheets,” in a near-sorrowful tone, apologetic.
“Mm. No,” George protests.
“George,” he says sagely, almost chastising, bringing some energy back into the room. George’s chest flutters. “You’ll kill me when you wake up and you know it.”
George sighs, finally pushing himself up and off the bed. “No, I won’t,” he says, extending an arm and waiting expectantly. Dream blinks up at him from where he’s sitting on the bed, clearly confused, and eyes him for a moment before standing and taking his hand.
George leads him out of his bedroom and immediately regrets not stealing one of Dream’s t-shirts to wear for the walk to his own room, but Sapnap isn’t home, so he resists the impulse to drop Dream’s hand and wrap his arms around his torso. Dream catches onto where they’re going pretty quickly; he squeezes George’s hand when they arrive, failing to hide the small smile on his face when he closes the door behind them. It’s only the third time Dream has slept in his room.
He crawls into his bed and Dream hears the silent instruction to follow, immediately crowding into him from behind and wrapping a strong arm around his middle. George rubs his face against his pillow, sighing happily just as Dream presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.
He always disliked sharing beds with another person while growing up, but sleep seems to come easier than ever when he’s wrapped in the warmth of Dream. He knows what that means, but he doesn’t dwell. He falls asleep listening to Dream’s breathing even out, deepening as he, too, relaxes into the serene little bubble they’re in.
George misses Dream, sometimes, even when they’re in the same place.
It’s like his subconscious forgets he’s not in England anymore and he can walk a few feet and be in the same room as him. Like his brain is hardwired to miss Dream constantly and reverts to its default settings overnight.
He thinks it probably runs a little deeper than that, likely has something to do with the core-deep, hollowed-out emptiness he’d been living in for years. Regardless — he misses Dream even when he’s just a door away, and the pang of it hits him so hard he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s been accused of codependency, mostly by their fans, but George doesn’t like that word. It feels negative, unhealthy, and he recoils at the idea of attributing that to Dream.
He often thinks back to the first time Dream ever kissed him. Not the first time they kissed, because George had been the one to finally say fuck it and take the leap after years of buildup and waiting and subtle flirting safeguarded by humor to fall back on, but the first time Dream took it upon himself to grab his face and press their lips together.
Dream is cautious, for the most part; always is and always has been. Risk assessment is second nature to him, a natural step in his thought process after being burned by someone he’d considered a friend one too many times. It’s a skill, and one that George admires, at that. Just not when it comes to himself.
He’d been pestering Dream sporadically throughout the day that it happened. He was bored, for god’s sake, and Dream was glued to his computer getting ahead of some emails, which meant that none of them were urgent and he was working just to work. Shameful, really.
“Dream, I’m bored,” he’d whined on his third time wandering into Dream’s office that day, unspent energy thrumming through him with nowhere to go. “Entertain me.”
“I’m working, George. Just give me an hour.” He didn’t even look away from his computer.
“You said that an hour ago,” George argued.
“One more,” Dream said, “then I’ll be done and we can do something.”
George sighed dramatically, laying it on thick. “Fine. One hour. One,” he emphasized, holding up a finger and everything, even though Dream still wasn’t looking at him. Sulking, he left Dream’s office, resolving to go find Patches and tell her how mean her dad was being.
He found her in the living room and scritched between her ears, smoothing out her soft fur afterward. She slowly blinked her big round eyes up at him, which he’d heard was a sign of love for cats, or something — he mimicked it, blinking so slowly it felt unnatural, like he was squinting. He felt a little silly doing it, and Patches didn’t react which made him wonder if he’d been lied to, but whatever. Then he went and got a can of her fishy-smelling wet food that was normally reserved for special occasions and gave it to her so she’d like him more than Dream. He hid the empty tin underneath another piece of garbage in the bin so he wouldn’t find out.
Later, after Dream emerged from his office with three minutes to spare and mollified George with sushi from his favorite restaurant, they settled into the theatre room with some snacks. George insisted that he get to choose the movie since he’d been abandoned and neglected by Dream all day. Not because he really cared what they watched, but because the part of him that’d been itching for Dream’s attention wasn’t yet sated and nothing hit the spot quite like watching him scoff and roll his eyes at George’s antics, letting George pull played-up reactions out of him like a puppeteer.
He couldn’t sit still even once the movie started. He wasn’t interested in it, frankly. He didn’t stop bothering Dream, commenting on arbitrary aspects of the film and stealing popcorn from his bowl even though he’d brought George his own. Eventually, when Dream got fed up with George swiping his popcorn and moved it to the side of the chair furthest from him, which left George with no other option than to obnoxiously lean over his body to reach the bowl, it seemed to click in Dream’s mind that George wasn’t there for the movie.
He wrapped his arm around George’s middle and yanked him even further onto his own chair, throwing off his centre of gravity and effectively causing him to knock the bowl off the chair and spill popcorn all over the floor. George shrieked and squirmed, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. Only when his efforts had failed and he’d given up did Dream loosen his arm enough for George to look him in the face.
“What is your deal?” Dream asked, exasperated and a little accusatory, but still playful.
Stubborn, George replied, “Nothing. What? I don’t have a deal.”
Dream scoffed. “Right. So you’ve been annoying me all day just because… it’s fun?”
“…Well,” George grinned. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Dream rolled his eyes, then, looking incredibly fond. He muttered something under his breath, then hooked his hands under George’s armpits to pull him a little more upright. He grabbed George’s jaw with a strong hand, looking him over for a moment, and then said, “God. You’re so fucking—”
George never found out what he was going to say, because then Dream was kissing him, all tongue and teeth and zero grace. His hand stayed firmly planted on George’s jaw, guiding his head whichever way he wanted, taking full control of the kiss. He even pulled him over so he was properly sitting in Dream’s lap, straddling him, and the ease in which he maneuvered George nearly caught him more off-guard than the kiss itself, sending a wave of heat straight to his groin.
It was only then that he realized what he’d been searching for, what he’d been trying to needle out of Dream, craving. It was exactly that: he wanted Dream to take. He wanted Dream to be selfish with him, for once. To be a little reckless. He wanted Dream to give in. Not to George — to himself.
Something seemed to switch inside of Dream after that. It wasn’t drastic, it was more like… he’d been given permission, almost. Or confirmation.
George feels like he’s learned some things about Dream since then. More than just gratefully accepting whatever George gives him, he initiates, now, and he asks for what he wants.
One thing he’s learned that Dream loves — unsurprising in retrospect — is blowing him. And eating him. Having George in his mouth, one way or another, but blowing him especially.
He’s on his knees with his nose buried in George’s pubes when he’s reminded just how much Dream loves this. He’s so expressive, letting out soft moans and leaning into George’s hands and blinking up at him with a certain weight to his gaze. Honestly, he isn’t even really blowing George; it’s almost closer to cockwarming with the way he stays almost completely still. But he lets George hook a thumb into the side of his mouth and pull, just slightly, to stretch it, and when the lust disables George’s filter and he murmurs, “So fucking good. And all for me, yeah?” Dream makes a noise like he’s hurt and then nods his head with his mouth still stuffed full of George’s cock, and it’s so fucking hot that it gets him there anyway.
When he warns Dream that he’s close, Dream lets his mouth fall open around George’s cock and looks up at him with something dark and firm in his gaze. And George— he can see it in his eyes, what it means to have him on his knees and so open. He grunts as he shallowly fucks into Dream’s warm, wet mouth, and it’s barely a minute later that his orgasm is ripping through him.
After, when he returns to his body, he drops to his knees in a mirror of Dream’s position and sticks his hand down the front of his shorts, feels the warmth and humidity and wants to rub his face in it. He pulls him out and gets a hand around him while the other grabs underneath his jaw, gently prying his mouth open to lick into it while he jerks him off. He can taste himself on Dream’s tongue.
Dream lets out these soft, weepy little grunts that George wishes he could record and listen to whenever they aren’t together. He pulls back, pride blooming in his chest at the way Dream mindlessly chases his mouth, and tells him how good he made George feel and that he wants him to come. Dream looks like he’s been drugged. George watches him when he comes, enraptured, studies the way his features go slack and how he twitches with the force of it.
All Dream says once he recovers and catches his breath is, “Holy fuck.”
George scoffs, amused. “Holy cow,” he mutters inanely, not really having meant to. Dream’s eyes glimmer with mirth as they flick over to him, a grin splitting across his face.
“Holy cow, indeed,” he says, chuckling. George rolls his eyes despite the smile he's wearing.
“You’re so stupid.”
Dream ignores him. “That was— epic. Like, I feel like I just came my brains out. Holy shit.”
“Yeah, well. I’m the goat. Some might even say I’m cracked.” He shifts. “Give me your shirt so I can clean your glizz off my hand.”
Dream scoffs. “No. Use your own shirt.”
“It’s your glizz.”
“And it’s your fault you’re wearing it.”
George can’t really argue that, and also the phrasing makes him feel kind of gooey inside. He plays his part of acting annoyed and put-out as he huffs while standing up to go find a washcloth. “Fine. I guess I’ll do all the work.”
He grabs his boxers and walks past Dream toward the ensuite, but Dream catches his wrist before he makes it too far.
“Sleep here tonight?” he asks, soft and small. George feels the corners of his mouth tick up.
“Sure, yeah. Be right back.”
George has mostly gotten used to the Florida heat — he’d actually found it notably cold in London when he visited over Christmas, hit with a perpetual chill he couldn’t seem to shake — but Argentina is something else entirely. There isn’t even a slight reprieve when the sun goes down at night like there is in Florida, the stifling humidity clinging to the air so thickly that even a breeze doesn’t bring any relief.
He’s been sticking close to Sapnap and Gia, but he’s happy to see Shadoune again and he quite likes a lot of the people he’s met during the trip. They’re loud and shameless and funny and actually extremely welcoming. It’s nice — they seem good. Solid. Dream would like them, too, he thinks.
On the first day of MegaCon, Dream texts the group chat with himself, George, and Sapnap and tells them that a semi-popular streamer they all know of but hadn’t spoken to before private messaged him on Twitter to tell him that she’d be watching his debut of the Fusion technology at the convention the next day. Sapnap sees the text before George does and responds with holy shit dude, and then in a separate message, you sly motherfucker, and then a final one, you dirty dog, you. George doesn’t like the way that makes him feel and he doesn’t want to think about what it means. They’re all at the skate park and everyone is streaming and he doesn’t want to ruin the vibe, so he sends his own response, a simple lol, and then pockets his phone and goes to find a distraction.
He ends up in a conversation with Bana, finds himself explaining the difference between the words joke and choke and the importance of properly enunciating them. Bana asks him if choking is a gay thing and he says that sometimes it is, and then the chat is being spammed with messages telling them to kiss and George actually considers it for a second, looking Bana over and deciding that he likes his full beard and his kind eyes.
He doesn’t know why he does it. Normally he lets that sort of thing wash right over him, laughing it off if not ignoring it entirely. Maybe it’s the thrill of being on a livestream, emboldened by the fact that only a small fraction of his own community will probably even watch it, making him feel unknown in a liberating kind of way. Maybe it’s the thought of Dream excitedly scanning the crowd tomorrow for someone that isn’t him. Bana ends up walking away, his attention drawn somewhere else, so George moves on as well.
He doesn’t check his phone again until they’re back at the Airbnb and he finally crawls into bed. He skims through his notifications and sees that he has one unread text from Dream, sent just to him and not to the group chat: i didn’t reply to her, received about an hour ago. He can’t help but notice that it came in sometime after George’s appearance on Bana’s stream.
Simultaneously, he breathes a sigh of relief and a lump forms in his throat. He feels oddly… exposed? Confronted? He can’t quite put a name to it, but he doesn't think it’s all bad, necessarily. It’s… new. It feels like something important shifts just a little bit.
He doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he doesn’t want to just ignore it, so he heart-reacts to the message and then turns off his phone.
George never got jealous when he was still in London. Not exactly.
Sure, he was jealous that he couldn’t move in with Dream at the same time that Sapnap did, and he was jealous of the — albeit very few — people who got to see Dream’s face and know the in-person version of him and just… exist in the same space as him, with him. Although, George thinks that was less envy and more an overwhelming frustration with something bigger than himself.
Anything else, though, never bothered him. Because at the end of the day, it was George that Dream called before bed. It was George who got to hear the way his words started to slur and his voice went soft when he was about to fall asleep. It was George who got the important bits, from his greatest and grandest ideas all the way to the private, vulnerable moments, whispered fears and silent yearning, securely tethered together from across an ocean by much more than a phone call.
And he held those moments close to his heart. Clutched them, really, with a white-knuckled grip. It was all he had for so long. And it was just for him.
Now, he has more. He’s here. There’s no uncertainty and waiting, no need to latch onto every little crumb he’s given like he’s starving and it’s what’s keeping him alive. But he still finds himself doing it, holding little pieces of information close to his chest like they’re secret.
The word greedy loiters in his mind, not for the first time.
He’s greedy for the versions of Dream that are just for him, like Dream in dim lamplight and Dream as he’s just woken up and Dream as he cries for his hands. Dream when he’s on his knees, when he’s fixated on something and hasn’t left the house in days, when he’s sick and sniffly and bedridden.
So much of Dream is out there for the whole world to see. George actually admires him for it, the way he keeps baring himself to them even though it’s been thrown right back in his face so many times. That takes a special kind of courage, he thinks. And strength. But it makes him feel so selfish, like he’s gatekeeping these parts of Dream.
He isn’t going to stop, though. He doesn’t want to.
The evening after George and Sapnap return home from Argentina, they hang out in the living room with Dream and tell him all about the trip and the people they consider new friends and laugh at Dream’s recountal of his scuffed panel at MegaCon. Dream laughs, too, but George can sense some underlying disappointment there.
Sapnap tells them that he’s going to bed before too long, and then it’s just George and Dream left sitting on opposite sides of the couch, George with his legs stretched out on the cushions. They’re quiet for a moment, and Dream shuffles close enough to touch his ankle, fingers wrapped around it and rubbing at the bone that sticks out there over the fabric of his sock.
George is wearing sweatpants and a big hoodie, and he crosses his arms and sinks into the couch a bit, making himself smaller. He feels stupid and awkward for what he wants to ask, but the curiosity outweighs it.
“Why didn’t you respond to her?”
It’s been days since Dream sent that text and they haven’t talked about it since. George is certain that Dream will know what he’s referring to, but they tend to… talk around things. He's counting on Dream not to play dumb.
Dream looks at him, a hint of surprise in his expression, like he wasn’t expecting the question. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and George fights against the deep-seated discomfort that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin and refuses to look away.
He watches him bite the inside of his cheek, and then finally, after what’s realistically probably only a few seconds, Dream answers. “I wasn’t interested in her.”
George hums, considering this. He can’t help but tease, “She wasn’t asking you to marry her, Dream. What if she just wanted to be friends?”
Dream sputters, flustering a bit. “Okay, I— obviously I know that. I wasn’t— you know what I mean. There are… implications, with that sort of thing. She—”
He seems to catch George's amusement and cuts himself off, scoffing and shaking his head. “Fuck off,” he says, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
His hand had gone still around George’s ankle while he was speaking so George rubs his feet together until he starts moving it again, pleased when he feels Dream’s thumb dip under the top of his sock and rub at the indent it’s left on his skin.
He pauses, eyes trained on Dream’s hand. He shifts. “Not interested in her, specifically?” He doesn’t elaborate, but he can feel Dream’s eyes on him.
Dream takes an audible breath and leans his head against the back of the couch. When he looks back over to George and replies, he can tell by his tone that the words were carefully chosen.
“Not interested in pursuing anything with anyone new.”
Anyone new.
George still can’t bring himself to meet Dream’s eyes, and he hums as noncommittally as he can in hopes that the sheer exhilaration coursing through isn’t too obvious. After long enough has passed that it could be unrelated to their conversation, Dream squeezes his ankle once, and George’s chest squeezes, too, as if Dream’s hand had been wrapped around his heart instead.
It’s during an accidental get-together at their house a couple weeks later that it all solidifies. That the small, unnamed shifts he’s been noticing settle into place and reveal something bigger. It brings an isolated memory of primary school to the surface, having little square images laid out in front of him with the task of arranging them to tell a story or to create one big picture.
Sapnap summons Tony early in the day to help work out the logistics of some arbitrary stream idea he’s been obsessed with and Dream has Parker up in the studio to talk about music stuff, so they’ve both been at the house all day. Gia is visiting Florida currently with a couple of the friends they met in Argentina — not Bana, though — and she texts George asking if they’re around, and he tells her yes and that they should come over. It’s two people he knows are good; decent and trustworthy enough not to leak anything, at the minimum. When everyone realizes they’re all in the same house, they decide to have some drinks in the living room.
It’s rare that Dream drinks, let alone drinks enough to get drunk or even buzzed, but with enough people around to goad him into it he eventually caves. George likes seeing him let loose a little bit. Neither of them are wasted or anything, but George has a nice buzz making him feel light and happy that he definitely plays up just to be annoying, and Dream seems relaxed beside him. He’s got a bit of a manspread going on and the arm that isn’t holding his drink is stretched along the back of the sofa. He’s taking up space, and the thought makes George smile to himself.
He and Dream mostly nurse a couple drinks whereas the others eventually start taking shots, though they do get roped into taking one each. As their friends get louder and their attention spans get shorter, George is content to watch quietly from the couch with Dream, feeling peaceful and appreciative. Having his space filled with good friends is something he’ll never take for granted.
At some point their friends trickle into the kitchen and linger there, leaving the two of them on the couch. George is very aware of Dream’s presence beside him, but he isn’t… rushed.
“Having fun?” Dream asks. George turns to look at him, sees his cheeks slightly darkened with a flush from the alcohol and his eyes shining a little bit.
“Mm. Yeah,” George answers, finishing off his White Claw. He leans over Dream’s body to set the empty can on the side table, and then he kind of just gives up, going limp and ending up half-sprawled across Dream’s lap.
“Uh,” Dream says, his smile audible. George hears him set his own drink down, and after a moment, he says, “Hi.” George thinks that means Dream has checked, and no one is paying any attention to them.
“Hi,” he responds, muffled into Dream’s pant leg. His eyes flutter shut when a big hand finds his head and its fingers weave through his hair. They’re silent for a bit, Dream idly playing with George’s hair and scritching at his scalp. The sensation sends tingles all the way down his spine and eventually he’s had enough. Or— not enough.
He pushes himself up so he’s properly sitting on Dream’s lap, facing him. Dream’s eyes widen in surprise, and he half-glances toward the kitchen, hands twitching at George’s sides like he can’t decide whether to hold him there or not.
“George, what if— they’re right there.”
“Let them see,” he says easily, leaning forward and burying his face in Dream’s neck. He isn’t trying to start anything. Dream is just so warm and solid against him, and he smells so good, like home. It’s comforting.
A hand tentatively finds its way to his back, rubbing up and down soothingly. “You good?”
He sighs, deep and serene. “I’m perfect, Dream,” he tells him, and it’s the truth. The hand on his back pauses momentarily, and then Dream’s other arm comes up to wrap around his middle and pull him more snugly against him.
“Me too. Like this, with you. I— yeah.”
George hides his grin in the crook of Dream’s neck.
“Poetic.”
Dream scoffs. “Fuck off,” he says, but his voice is incredibly soft. George giggles, but his brain clings onto one little thought and doesn’t let go, nagging at him until his heart starts beating just a tiny bit faster and he shifts nervously in Dream’s lap.
“Just me?” He tries to keep his voice light and teasing but he doesn’t think he succeeds; Dream’s hand comes to a halt again and George feels the way his breathing changes, plastered chest-to-chest. His own breaths fall shallow as he waits for him to say something. He knows it was vague — he couldn’t quite bring himself to say anything more — but it’s clear that Dream knows what he’s asking.
Then, after a long few seconds pass by, Dream sighs and confesses, “Yeah, George,” as he’s breathing out.
Nothing happens. The ground doesn’t crack open and swallow them up. Fireworks don’t go off. George is still certain he’ll never forget the way he feels in this moment.
“Dream.” He still isn’t looking at him. He can’t, not yet.
“You know I’ve— I’m— it’s always been you. I didn’t… you know. We’ve never, like…” he trails off, fingers fidgeting restlessly against George’s back. “But, yeah, George. You— you’re it for me. Sorry if that’s not…”
“Dream,” he repeats. It’s all there is to say. Finally, he lifts his head from Dream’s neck and looks at him, and their faces are so close. He can feel Dream’s breath. “Dream,” he says again, much softer this time, almost a whisper. He brings a hand up to rest gently on Dream’s cheek and just looks at him, at his wide eyes and darkened cheeks and bitten bottom lip, and Dream lets him.
He tells him, “Don’t— never be sorry for that. You don’t ever have to be sorry for that.” He searches Dream’s expression, a sense of urgency rising in him. “Do you understand, Dream?”
Dream searches him right back, eyes flitting across his face. “I…”
“It’s—” George huffs. He feels stiff and strained and kind of embarrassed, apprehension crawling over him. He lowers his hand from Dream’s cheek to his shoulder and closes his eyes. This feels big, and he knows what it must have taken for Dream to express that. George wants to do the same for him. Determined, he grits his teeth and presses onward, forcing the words to come out no matter how clumsily. He needs him to know. “I’m— it’s the same for me. Or— the same for you, to me.”
Dream doesn’t say anything. All George can hear is the commotion coming from the kitchen — Sapnap’s loud voice over the sound of the music they’ve got playing in the background, the laughter of their friends, the sound of a glass bottle being set down a little too heavily on the marble countertop — and so after a few tense moments, he opens his eyes to peer at Dream.
He’s grinning like an idiot and George is immediately flooded with relief. He can’t help but smile right back at him, setting loose an airy chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Dream’s eyes are so bright.
“You like me,” Dream teases, still beaming. He digs his fingers into George’s hips, and George feels his face heat up despite having just admitted that exact thing. Sort of. In his own way.
“Shut up,” he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Bro is— bro’s literally delusional.” Something starts to simmer in his gut and the vibe shifts instantly, electrified. Within a second he isn’t laughing anymore, and any interest in flirty banter vanishes. He gives Dream a look that he hopes conveys what he’s thinking. He’s pretty sure it does the trick, considering the way Dream’s smile almost immediately disappears and his eyes darken considerably.
George tilts his hips just slightly, leans more of his weight into Dream, both a teasing suggestion and a preview of the reward he’s going to give him once their friends leave for the night.
“You… are evil,” Dream says, voice low and gruff and going straight to George’s head. He feels a smirk tug at his lips. Secretly, he’s marveling at how easy it is to make Dream look at him like this. George licks his lips slowly, stringing out the action, and is pleased when Dream’s eyes drop to his mouth and go a little hazy. He feels a bit silly, but he also feels wanted. It’s absolutely worth it.
“George!” Sapnap yells from the kitchen. “Get in here, you little bitch. You’re so far behind, come take a shot!”
Toothless frustration flickers across Dream’s face. Feeling far too proud of himself, George gives him one last meaningful, weighted look and climbs off his lap before Sapnap comes to get him. Dream’s eyes don’t leave him as he stands and starts moving toward the kitchen, and even once he turns around; he can feel the heat of his gaze on his back.
Dream doesn’t follow him right away. To Sapnap’s delight, George accepts the shot he’s already poured for him, earning a clap on the back when he swallows it down with a wince. He doesn’t even try to hide it — that shit is disgusting. Dream quietly slinks in soon after, taking it upon himself to fill an empty plastic cup with juice from the fridge and hand it to George.
It’s a challenge to keep himself present and engaged with their friends, but he doesn’t get to see them often and he also doesn’t want to be lame and go to bed while they’re still here. He’d never hear the end of it from Sapnap. Plus, maybe it’s a little bit amusing to watch Dream glance his way every chance he gets. So, he makes excuses not to have any more drinks, and he chats and laughs and tells Sapnap he’s so drunk, and he’s smiling the whole time.
Their friends do eventually leave, though, and then he’s finally in Dream’s room. He’s grateful for his decision not to get anything more than tipsy, because he’s admiring the broad scope of Dream’s back as he locks the door and turns on a lamp and takes off his beanie, and he immediately wants to climb him like a tree. He’s— yeah, he’s going to do that.
Once Dream is satisfied and settled, he looks at George, and whatever he sees on his face makes his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drop open.
“Um—” Dream laughs a little bit like he’s in disbelief. “Hi.”
“Hi,” George says, stalking closer, moving slowly. He stops when they’re about a foot apart, looking up at him. Dream watches him, waiting patiently and eagerly. “Get on the bed.”
“Wh— okay,” Dream sputters, hesitating for a second like he’s buffering, and then he sits on the bed with his back against the headboard. He laces his hands together on his stomach and he looks… small. George wants to swallow him whole.
He follows swiftly after Dream, unconcerned with finesse as he clambers onto his lap and resumes their position from earlier. Dream’s hands slip under the material of George’s t-shirt as he brings them up to rest on his waist, softly stroking the skin covering his ribs. George touches his face, touches him delicately, hands on his cheeks and his thumbs brushing along the faint freckles dotted there. And then he kisses him.
It’s deep and passionate, but it’s gentle. It’s a drawn-out drag of their lips, neither of them in any hurry — until they are, and Dream’s mouth parts softly against George’s, letting him in.
George licks into his hot mouth and tastes the beer he’d been drinking earlier, but it dissolves quickly and leaves only the taste of Dream. He presses closer, wrapping his arms around his neck and threading his fingers into the hair at his nape.
He shifts his hips to rub his ass against Dream’s dick, which is already half-hard, at least. Dream sighs into his mouth and tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and then they’re moving faster, harder — and George is hungry.
He pulls away so he can take Dream’s shirt off, get his hands on his bare skin, and soon as he does, he dives back in and kisses him roughly. His fingers dance along the expanse of Dream's torso, feeling the patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest that trails thinly down his abdomen, getting thicker under his navel. He scratches lightly at it, absently pictures rubbing his face against it.
Dream is fully hard, now, and so is George; he grinds their hips together and takes pleasure from the firm grip Dream has on his waist. He doesn’t try to guide George, just holds onto him like he doesn’t know what else to do, and suddenly, violently, George needs—
“Lie on your back,” he pants, pulling away. He climbs off Dream’s lap and sits at his side while he waits, adding, “And take off your pants,” as he gracelessly takes his own shirt off.
Dream makes quick work of shucking off his pants, getting rid of his boxers, too, while he’s at it. George reaches over to open the nightstand drawer and grabs the lube, situating himself between Dream’s legs as he squeezes some out onto his hand and slicks up his fingers. He doesn’t bother pretending that he has any patience.
His clean hand snakes up to rest on Dream’s strong thigh. He pauses, then, to take in the sight of him. Dream’s hands are resting on his stomach right above his cock, which is hard and flushed at the tip. He looks a little bit shy, almost, with his legs spread only as far as they need to be for George to sit between them, one of his fingers tapping irregularly.
George offers him a smile that he hopes is reassuring. “Hi,” he says. Then, “I want to finger you.”
Dream exhales harshly, his expression thawing out. “Okay,” he agrees, voice barely above a whisper. His desire is palpable.
George’s smile widens at that, shuffling closer on his knees, nudging Dream’s legs further apart. Dream’s cheeks darken as he bends his legs, slowly bringing them up to his chest and hooking his arms behind his knees, opening himself up for George.
George exhales sharply and feels his cock twitch in his shorts. He spends a few moments admiring the sight, thumbing at Dream’s ass just beside his hole, pulling at him a little. He brings his lubed hand up to prod at his rim, circling it to let him adjust before slipping the tip of his index finger inside.
Dream is quiet as George slowly works his finger into him, giving him a little more every time he pulls back and pushes in again. Occasionally, he clenches around him, squeezing him despite already being so tight, and if he didn’t know Dream was just getting himself accustomed to the sensation, testing how it feels, George’s restraint might just snap.
The second finger is what makes the first sound spill out, a breathy little moan that George probably wouldn’t have heard if he weren’t listening so attentively. He keeps moving his fingers languidly, focusing on loosening him enough that the glide of his fingers is easy, but not delivering any real pleasure. He’s keeping Dream on edge, seeing if he’ll crack from the anticipation.
He does, predictably, after a few minutes with two of George’s fingers and no change in pace or technique. His hips shift subtly like he’s trying to get the right angle, maybe not even consciously, and then he says, “George,” in a tone that’s soft and needy, almost sad.
“Hmm?”
“I— can you—” Dream stutters, cutting himself off with a harsh breath out through his nose.
“What, Dream?” George pushes. He loves when Dream gets like this, loves watching him work himself up and grow increasingly desperate. “You’re gonna have to tell me what you want. How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me? I’m not a mind reader, Dream.”
Dream bites at his bottom lip, his cock straining against his abdomen. There’s pre-cum dripping from the slit and George is momentarily stunned by how turned on Dream is despite being given almost no stimulation at all, just the lazy, methodical slide of George’s small fingers.
“I— it’s not enough, George,” Dream says, whiny. His eyes are big and pleading. “I can’t— I need more. Please, I—” He moans softly, interrupting himself.
“More how?” George asks, just to be mean.
A crease forms between Dream’s eyebrows. “George—”
“More… like this?” he asks, crooking his fingers right into where he knows Dream’s prostate is.
“Fuck,” Dream groans. His cock twitches, bobbing obscenely, the tip flushed so dark it almost looks like it hurts.
“Yeah?” George’s voice comes out breathier than he expected, but he decides that he doesn’t feel the need to hide how affected he is, how much he wants Dream.
“Yes,” Dream moans, as George presses against his prostate in tiny little pulses. “Yes, George, fuck. Feels— so fucking good.”
“You like it when I touch you here?” he coos.
Dream whimpers, and the sound goes straight to George’s dick. He has to touch himself over his shorts just to relieve some of the pressure. George knows he likes it, likes how he can feel his prostate, the way it’s fleshier than the surrounding area; likes the sounds he can coax out of Dream just by touching it; likes being able to pleasure him precisely.
“Yeah,” Dream answers, nodding, his voice meek. He sounds delirious.
“I wanted to fuck you,” George tells him, “but you sound so nice. You think you can come like this?”
Dream makes a pained noise. “Yeah, I— I think so. George.”
“You want to?”
“George,” he whines. He looks conflicted, burdened with the choice between George’s fingers and his dick.
“I think you want to,” George tells him, keeping his voice sweet. “I think you’re close already. Are you, Dream? Are you going to make a mess of yourself on my fingers?”
The sound he makes in response is shattered, verging on a sob. George’s hand is cramping and it’s starting to hurt, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop, not when Dream is looking at him like this, like it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open.
“Yeah,” Dream whimpers, eyes glossing over. Even through the haziness, there’s an intensity to his gaze that sets George on fire.
“Go on, then,” he murmurs, letting his voice drop into something seductive. He prods insistently at that spot inside of Dream, letting him feel the weight of his gaze as he watches him fall apart. “I’m only using two fingers,” he says, a taunt, “but that’s enough for you, isn’t it? I bet I could get you off with just my pinkie.”
“Fuck—”
“Just need something inside of you, even if you can barely feel it, hm?” He knows it isn’t even true, but the embarrassed moan that spills from Dream’s mouth tells him that it was the right thing to say. There’s a potent mix of need and arousal pouring out of him in thick waves and George wants to capture the essence of it and turn it into a cologne.
“George—”
He drives his fingers into Dream’s prostate over and over, watching as all the little muscles in his face go slack, seconds away from plummeting over the edge. “Come on, Dream. Come on my little fingers, yeah?” That deep green greed comes back, creeping into his gut. “Let me feel it.”
A broken moan explodes from Dream, and George watches his balls draw up to his body and feels him bear down on the fingers in his ass, and then he’s coming. George can see his taint throb in time with the cum pulsing from his dick, landing in streaks across his stomach, even reaching up to his chest. He usually likes to watch Dream’s face when he orgasms, leaning over him or having Dream on his hands and knees when he fingers him, but this position is new and he’s enraptured by the up-close view of Dream’s hole and dick as he comes, legs spread open and trembling.
His dick gives a final few weak twitches as his muscles relax, and George takes that as his cue to let his fingers go still. He gets the impulsive urge to keep rubbing Dream’s prostate into overstimulation, to see how his body would react, but he thinks that kind of surprise should be discussed beforehand; and besides, now that he isn’t focused on making Dream come, his own need bubbles up inside of him like a pot boiling over.
Yeah, he isn’t going to last long.
He lets his fingers slide out of Dream’s ass and wipes them on the bed — Dream is too out of it right now to scold him for it. He rises up on his knees and clumsily slips his shorts and boxers down to about mid-thigh, just enough to get his dick and balls out and get a hand around himself. He starts stroking himself immediately, no patience or desire to drag the pleasure out, already worked up from watching Dream.
Dream had gone limp once he’d finished, but he hadn’t been able to fully close his legs since George is in between them, so George presses his free hand to the back of his thigh and pushes, gently enough, to put all of him on display again. He grunts at the sight of Dream's hole, red and wet and slightly puffy, and then trails his eyes up to his softening dick, and then even higher to the cum splattered across his stomach.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his orgasm already coiling tight in his pelvis. When he lets his gaze drift up to Dream’s face, he finds him watching him with his head tilted lazily to the side, his pink mouth parted. It’s heady, heavy, and George indulgently wonders if maybe Dream is just as selfish as he is. He willingly, eagerly hands himself over, wants just as badly as George does — maybe neither of them are selfish. Maybe none of this is greed at all.
“George,” Dream says, a breath, calling to him. “Please.”
That’s all it takes. George spills over his fist, and in the heat of it he angles himself so his cum hits Dream’s dick, his balls, the coarse hair surrounding it. The last couple spurts land on his hole, and George actually has to screw his eyes shut so he doesn’t combust with how fucking hot it is. He’s panting as his orgasm fizzles out, and he opens his eyes to admire his work, feels something primal flare in his chest at the idea that he’s marked his territory, staked his claim.
He can’t help it when he drops his dick and brings his hand to Dream’s hole, smearing some of his cum there, and then, fervent and unthinking, pushes a finger past his rim, fucking his cum into Dream.
Dream makes a startled sound that snaps George out of his daze. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not feeling apologetic in the slightest, sliding his finger back out but definitely still staring.
“It’s okay,” Dream says, his words slurring a bit. George glances up at him then, removing his hand from the back of Dream’s thigh so he can straighten his leg out. Dream smiles something small and fond. “Come here,” he says, extending an arm.
George tucks himself back into his shorts and shuffles up the bed, settling on his side parallel to Dream. He feels weirdly vulnerable, sort of, like they’re sitting in the heart of something meaningful and one wrong move could disrupt it all. But Dream is looking at him so softly, so— so lovingly, and he sees George, really, truly sees him, the good and the bad and the things kept hidden, and he still— he still looks… like that. Like he loves him.
Those thoughts are too big for right now, so he leans into Dream’s space and kisses him gently, hoping he understands. He does, of course, because he’s Dream and Dream always understands George, even sometimes when he doesn’t understand himself. When they break apart, Dream says, “I’m gonna go get cleaned up, I’ll be right back,” followed up with a lingering kiss to George’s forehead.
George’s chest buzzes with warmth, and keeps buzzing once Dream comes back, and then for the whole time it takes for him to fall asleep.
The next morning, they’re cuddling in bed when Dream casually mentions something that doesn’t feel particularly casual at all.
“By the way, my mom asked if you want to come for Easter.” George props his chin up on Dream’s chest to look at him, and there’s a sheepishness to his expression that he finds incredibly endearing. “We— she, like, insists on me and my siblings doing an egg hunt every year. I don’t know why. We all pretty much grew out of it a while ago, but… I dunno. It’s kinda nice. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, obviously. I just— you know. Thought I’d ask.”
George doesn’t say anything for a moment, still processing this information. Dream actually seems a little bit nervous, and George can’t understand why. He fills the silence by over-explaining. “We would— she sets it up the night before and gives us our Easter baskets when we first get up, and then we do the hunt. So we’d sleep there the night before. Or, well— you don’t have to stay over, I guess, if you don’t want to. I think she just thought that, like—”
“Dream,” George says, interrupting him. Dream falls silent and watches him expectantly; hopefully, too. George feels like he could float away. “I’m coming. Obviously. That sounds fun.” Dream smiles like he’s just given him the best gift in the whole world. A little more softly, more sincerely, he adds, “Of course I’m coming.”
Dream plants a kiss on his forehead and then flips them around, tackling George into the bed, undeterred by his screeches of protest. Once they’re both breathless and giggling, Dream collapses onto George, covering him like a blanket. The weight of his body pressing him into the mattress feels nice, comforting and safe. Dream tucks his face into George’s neck and kisses him there softly, his breath warm and damp.
Then, he shifts, keeping his face hidden. George can feel the vibrations of his voice rumbling in his chest when he says, “So— does that mean we’re… like. Do you— um. Shit.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “Sorry. I know we kinda talked about it last night but I just need to make sure I’m, like, on the same page as you with— um. With everything.”
George thinks he knows what he’s getting at and it feels like he’s harboring the entire sun in his chest.
“Dream, are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”
Dream pauses, silent, and then lifts his head from the haven of George’s neck to look at him. His cheeks are flushed bright and he’s so visibly nervous, and it’s— it’s cute. George can admit it — Dream is cute.
“Um,” Dream says. “I guess— I guess I am, yeah.” There’s some confidence seeping back into his voice after seeing whatever he does in George’s expression. He does ask, though, “Is that okay…?”
George tries to suppress it, but he can’t stop the grin from splitting across his face. Still, he feigns boredom, sighing dramatically before declaring, “I guess… I’ll allow it. For now. Fine— fine, Dream. Fine, I’ll be your boyfriend. If you insist.” His heart is going to beat right out of his chest.
Dream grins, too, happiness radiating off of him. “…Really?” he asks, as if there was even a chance that George could say no.
George huffs, feeling a little embarrassed, inexplicably. “Yes, idiot. Obviously. I’m, like— obsessed with you, or whatever.”
Dream’s smile grows somehow, taking on a hint of amusement. “Obsessed? Wow, George. I had no idea.”
“Shut up,” he scoffs. “Besides, you’re worse. You’re, like, doubly obsessed. You’re—”
“Doubly,” Dream snickers.
“—like, the— shut up. You’re—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dream interrupts, again, speaking loudly over George to cut him off. “You got me. I’m obsessed with you. Call the press.” He puts on his best news reporter voice. “Breaking news! Minecrafter DreamWasTaken in love with GeorgeNotFound, according to anonymous sources…”
He keeps talking in that stupid voice, but George doesn’t hear the words — he’s hung up on two in particular. He nudges Dream’s shoulder to get him to shut up, and then says, “In love?”
Dream flushes, his demeanor going soft again. He half shrugs, smiling bashfully. “I mean, yeah.” After a beat, he lightly asks, “Is that really a surprise?”
George considers this. He supposes it isn’t. He guesses that the surprising part is hearing it so openly. So easily.
“Me too, you know. I’m— I am, too. With you.”
Dream beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, and George feels himself mirror it. Nothing really feels… different, or like it’s changed. He thinks that’s a good thing.
“My mom is going to be so happy,” Dream tells him, erupting into laughter at the panic that flashes across George’s face, happening before he can stop it. “Kidding, obviously— like, we don’t have to tell anyone right away. Or, like, at all, if you don’t want to. I mean, I hope you do eventually, because I want to. Our friends and family, at least. But, my mom— I mean, I think she kind of already suspects… something. I mean. She’s seen how I am about you.”
That makes George smile. He feels giddy and wild. He shuts Dream up by kissing his stupid mouth. It’s a lot to think about, and it’s a little scary, but not in a bad way. Plus, he doesn’t have to do any of it alone. He’s got Dream now. Like, he has Dream. They’re each other’s, now.
He parts his lips to open up the kiss, deciding to show Dream one of the many, many ways he wants to have him.